


the girl

by rattvisa



Category: Black Sails
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, Sorry Not Sorry, basically the series + a character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-06-26 20:31:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 97,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15670758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rattvisa/pseuds/rattvisa
Summary: 'Ships don't sink because of the water around them. They sink because of the water that gets in them.'At bay, a young lady joins the Walrus crew only to find herself free falling from one hazard to another.





	1. IV.

**Author's Note:**

> This was created in an act of frenzy, includes a slight UA.
> 
> Please, excuse my poor language, English is not my native tongue (:

“So…” Eleanor licked her lips, nodding and looking up. “What kind of support exactly are you appealing for? “

“I need your help.”

“I get that part,” she was eyeing the young lady standing in front of her with concern.

“I need to be off dry land, the faster the better.”

“How do you think I shall…?”

“Miss Guthrie,” the girl, coming clean, took a step forward. “His men are after me; his brother is there to give his eyeteeth to get me into his vice.” Eleanor’s nostrils flared. “And when they track me here, when they lock me down, I’m doomed. I go back to England, I’m tried, and I’m dead. I have no one left back there, I believe not that … that there shall be a man to take up the bloody mess of the proceeding. I reckon my misery is of no concern of yours, but…”

Guthrie stood up, lowering her head. The girl watched her come up to a window.

Eleanor contemplated the street for a long moment. With over ninety-nine problems of her own she was now faced with another one. Her ethical principles and decency had already been tested that day, but she knew straight away they were to run the gantlet once more when O’Malley guided the girl in her office. 

“This is a pirate haven, I hope you’ve noticed…”

“I have. The better,” her voice was clear and ringing. “I’m not setting my foot on a royal deck. That’s why I’m here.”

“They aren’t hosts of heavens, do you fucking understand that?” Guthrie turned to the visitor. “They are pirates,” she pointed her finger at the ships drifting in the distance. “This is a nation of thieves, robbers, cutthroats slaughtering people, gaffing, wenching and, until more recent times, shitting on the streets. Grinning all over their faces as they do so. They are not the gentlemen you are used to be surrounded by.”

“The one and only gentleman I had the privilege to be around was my father,” said the girl, her voice getting bitter and strung.

“You imagination can’t even hold what those men are like…” the woman shook her head, chuckling inaudibly.

“Please, don’t make light of my imagination… and my experience. I would rather be out at sea with a crew of desperados than stay and be a mouse trying to wiggle out of a lion’s paws.”

Eleanor frowned, slightly raising her eyebrows, her lips parted.

“I have no doubt you want and will try to reason me,” the girl carried on, her head leaning towards her shoulder. Composed. “But rest assured, I’m not seeking to deceive you by saying this is my last resort. It is. I know I have no moral right to come here and ask you of anything, but with everything my father did for the Island and for you… Will you just help me escape the attaint and condemnation?” she breathed out shaking her head. “I’m dead whatever the outcome. But do hear me when I say that I’d rather die out there, because the only difference I can make now is whether the name of my father remains untarnished. Do I seem determined grimly enough to you?”

Miss Guthrie sighed.

She wasn’t particularly keen on relieving anyone’s distress. Moreover, there wasn’t  _much_  she could do. Yet she could do  _something_. At least try…

Eleanor looked up and nodded.

She made her way back to the window, turning her head to the girl.

“There’s only one ship I might… recommend to you,” she swallowed. “The only ship I entrust you to…. It’s just possible the crew will take you aboard. For a short time,” biting her lower lip, Eleanor fixed her gaze on the horizon. “The captain is a hard nut, I alerted you to that. I’ll take best shot, but can’t promise you anything.”

The girl nodded shortly, her fingers plucking at the front of her skirts. She lowered her eyes as if to steady her hands. When she looked at Eleanor again, the self-command was back by far.

“Thank you.”

“Let us go,” Guthrie gently took the girl by the elbow.

* * *

 

The girl didn’t know whether she would be the life of her or the death of her when she saw the Walrus lying on her side.

The sun seemed to be even more relentless there, on the beach, forcing the girl to squint. The wind was up, tangling her hair. The air, torrid, stiff and hot, smelled of salt water. But it was fresh and pure unlike the aroma of Nassau streets surprising one with affluence of tangs and peculiar malodours... And with every step on the soft sand the  _scent_  of almost addle fish dissolved and the image of the portly fishwife faded.

The girl knew was walking into something recklessly new.

She could see men from afar, bustling about the hull and running errands around the tents pitched over by.

Blood almost boiling, heart pounding.

 

“Miss Guthrie,” an unshaven man slowly approached them, fiddling with something in his hands.

“I wish to speak to the captain,” Eleanor said unflinchingly.

Logan eyed the women and nodded, raising his eyebrows. The pirate twirled on his heels. His jumpy gait sent sand splashing a little. The three of them delved into the labyrinth of tents.

The girl looked out and met a couple of glances herself. The men she was hopefully to sail with.  _They look like pirates, they smell like pirates. They are pirates._

She’d allowed reservations about the measure of atrociousness of sea robbers steal in her head long before ever reaching the island, but now meeting the people who made their bread plundering ships in person bolstered her beliefs. Maybe it was the fact they thieved for a living that blazed the trail for the underlying trend, but they all seemed …  _human_. Were they as disreputable as Londoners chose to perceive them?  _Remains to be learnt._  Yet, how the mere sight of them managed to infuse her with reprehension towards the posh tea-devourers whose  _conscience made cowards of them all…_?

The girl was surprised at the lack of common sense she managed to preserve.

 _A cat?_  She hemmed, arching an eyebrow.  _Brilliant_.

She indeed was taking interest in the new ambient more than dreading it.

 

“Captain, visitors,” said Logan bowing a little and taking a step back.

“The guns are yours,” Guthrie reported. The girl turned her head only to realise they had reached the destination. Flint squinted at her, but then his eyes were back on Eleanor. “They are being prepared to be off-loaded as we speak.”

“Take a seat,” his voice low and strong.

James poured some rum into two mugs.

“I’m also here to seek a favour from you...”

“I may guess it is the girl,” he didn’t grant her with another look, but gestured his hand in her general direction.

“It is.”

“I have a feeling I won’t like any of it,” Flint propped his elbows against the tabletop, moving his logs and maps aside. He shook his head once.

 _Jesus_. Was the interest vanishing, being replaced by the formerly absent fear? Of being left out in the cold.

“Captain...” a mellow, deep voice shrouded the girl as panic crawled to her throat.

She turned her head to cast a glance upon a man now standing a step behind her, but the glance didn’t linger – she couldn’t afford losing sight of the captain’s every last motion.

Billy was breathing hard; his bare chest glistening with sweat was rising and falling sharply. James didn’t look up at him either.

“I need you to take her on board,” Eleanor kept her expression blank.

“No,” was the answer. The same moment Flint glanced up at the quartermaster, “Billy?”

Bones, who finally unglued his eyes from the girl, was about to open his mouth to express his concerns regarding…

“Hear her out,” the marketeer protested, moving forward on her chair.

“Why should I?”

Left out of the dialogue, Bones sealed his lips.  _A girl on board? Fuck no_.

“You owe me, Flint. How long do you think it will take to load the guns back on the Andromache?”

The captain was quite taken aback - did she really just resort to intimidation?  _For the girl?_

“I don’t think it will take long,” uttered James staring the woman straight in the eyes, imperturbable and rather irritated. “But asking to take a woman on board is arrant madness." 

“I believe I’m a woman as well.”

“But thank God the thought of setting your foot on my deck has never crossed your mind.”

“You say you wouldn’t have let me?” Eleanor’s lip curved.

“Not amidst what we are dealing with right now,” he beckoned to the ship, raising a brow. Billy lifted his eyes to squint at the Walrus.  

“If she dies, she dies – it’s that easy. I am not asking you to save her life, I’m merely asking to get her off land now,” her shoulder jerked up. The girl didn’t even squirm.

“The crew are to do whatever they will?” Flint put a mask of horror onto Guthrie’s relaxed face – an expression designed to inspire prose into the zany request.  

Bones frowned, looking down. The girl’s dark hair was ruffled up by the wind; her chest fell.

“Captain Flint!” exclaimed the woman.

Furrowing the brow, the girl narrowed her eyes.  _So that’s what you are._

“Here we are,” James grinned, breathing out. “You aren’t asking to get her off land; you are asking to patronise her on board. Taking into account certain circumstances, this is not what I’m willing to engage with.”

“Well, taking into account certain circumstances, she’s in jeopardy on shore, so…”

“And who is after her?”

“Pleased to bring to notice, you have a mutual enemy,” Eleanor sucked on the inside of her cheek.

“May I inquire about the name?” the captain made a long neck, shaking his head.

“England.”

Flint darted a glance at the girl. Finally. She looked calm and earnest. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes were set on him as she silently waited for her chance to speak. Nothing seemed to escape from her notice.

“Every fucking soul on this soil is an enemy of England, so what’s so special about…?”

“Hear her out,” said Eleanor, leaning back. “And decide.”

Flint shifted on his seat and nodded shortly.

Bones felt a pair of eyes piercing him. He raised his eyebrows, failing to grasp what Guthrie meant by looking so askance at him.

“Billy is the quartermaster now… he holds some decision making power,” Flint tilted his head.

The girl didn’t turn to Bones all the same. She kept scrutinising the captain.

“I could wait,” said Bones, though he didn’t really have time for it. “Wish me to leave?”

“I do,” Eleanor was fast to respond, and Billy rolled his shoulders before receding.

“I won’t take long,” he didn’t quite understand whether the girl was addressing him or the captain for, as she finally spoke out, she faced Bones, looking apologetically. Her accent was strong and round. A lock of hair fell on her forehead, right above the eyebrows, inviting attention to a thin little wrinkle, but she didn’t reach to rid of the obstacle. Billy dropped a nod.

 

He left slightly annoyed, and the feeling was both inexplicable and reasonably clear. He sat down on a chest, having distanced himself good thirty yards from the party. His forehead itched because of the cloth tied round his head and the sweat collected underneath, so he pulled the covering off. The girl stood straight, locking her fingers under her stomach. She commenced with her story, Billy supposed.

The sun was in his face and he had to shield his eyes with his palm to allow himself to stare at the curious creature a little more. Her pale green dress was modest but rather neat. Though the hem of it was dirty and, he didn’t fail to notice, torn in a couple of places. Bones hadn’t seen a dress like that for hell of a long time… The girl didn’t gesture. Her face almost impassive, weary.

He looked at her, gazed at her next to devouringly.

That was something new. Yeah, it was quite natural for men to go round pleading something on the lines of “Don't ye mind me 'oppin' on board o' yer ship”, but a woman…?

Billy looked at her, and then he turned to watch his crew.  _No. Fuck no_.

It puzzled him how all his gyri were downright clamouring against her coming near the ship, but the curiosity was cracking the shell.

It puzzled him how Flint was listening to her. He grew attentive, he studied her. His fingers were pressed against his mouth as he frowned gravely. He barely let a dozen of words escape his lips.  _What kind of fuck she must be telling him to get him so … bewitched?_

Billy didn’t know how long for she was talking. He leaned back, putting his hand down on his knee. The cloth he was squeezing in his fingers was drenched in sweat.  _Is it hot in a corset?_

Bones took a look at the Walrus, checking if the careening was slotting into place. Maybe it wasn’t that unlikely that they would elude a calamity. As if seeking recognition, Billy skimmed the camp with his eyes, trying to spot De Groot. He found out quickly it was safe to say he wasn’t the only one perplexed by the girl’s … arrival. One of the crew took a bite of his pig, looking at her and smiling wide.

_Fuck no._

With a shake of his head, he cast his eyes on her again only to catch sight of Flint watching him. James gave a nod. The quartermaster rose to his feet, adjusting his belts. When he came up to the table with his head hung, the girl still hadn’t finished.

“I realise I’m asking you of an impossibility, and it’s not the right time,” her tone was cold. Dead serious, she didn’t seek to pierce the listeners with any emotions. “I am acutely aware you crew is a pirate crew and...  You know it, I would rather have my body eaten by sea creatures than fall in hands of the men who want to drive me to the grave alive.”

Bones blinked a couple of times, looking to the sides a tiny bit astounded.

Miss Guthrie was staring down at her lap.

“You have your say, Billy,” Flint put his hand on his chin.

The girl lifted her head to look at Bones. He was afraid she’d give him the infamous imploring look women were so marvellous at. But she didn’t. She looked him in the face with a calm expression, awaiting his judgement.

“What is it all about?” he asked Flint, trying to ignore her blank gaze.  _Have a say about what exactly?_

The girl seemed to share the confusion.

“We have a lady in distress, aching to escape the land and weirdly fine with dying alongside your brothers,” recapped the captain.

“We can’t take her,” Billy shrugged simply. “The Urca…”  _that_  had to be said discreetly. “… is a risky enterprise. The chances we’ll have her… um, you, miss, dead are… high.”

“The chances of it happening appear to fall into the category of indifference,” James chuckled bitterly and addressed the girl. “And what would you do on board?”

“I’d be puking over the boards and causing you trouble,” a good command of dry humor at its finest.  

“Very well,” Flint laughed. Billy didn’t. “Resourceful. Exactly what we need.”

“No skirts on board,” said Bones.

The girl cast a look upon him and nodded hopelessly, but sagely. Composing her lips she lowered her eyes to Eleanor…

“What I mean is… go fetch yourself a pair of trousers.”

Guthrie exhaled.

The girl stared at Billy in disbelief. She couldn’t comprehend it at first. Then she blinked. And frowned. And nodded, absent look falling upon his frame. Her mouth relaxed.

_Oh, brother, are you bloody awake to what you are doing?_

But before Bones could go far with giving himself account of his own actions, Flint spoke out again.

“Billy, get Gates,” Bones bit his lip, uneasily drawing his eyes at the captain. “Tell him he is to welcome that girl as if she was his daughter. She is from now on. Hear me?”

“Yeah. I do,” he said hesitantly. “But before… there’s something…”

“Right,” the captain pursed his lips and looked at the girl. “Wait there, will you?” he gestured to the chest.

She stepped back without dissent and Billy moved forward past her, getting closer to the captain.

The discussion comprised five lines at halves at most and then Bones beckoned, casting the last look upon the girl, and hurried away.

“Why Gates?” Eleanor took a pull from her mug.

* * *

 

_Is she another secret Flint is to take aboard?_

Billy was striding across the camp.

_Is she another thread of his murky…?_

His chest itched thanks to all the sand and dirt sticking to it, so he tried to shake it off snappishly.

It didn’t seem to him his consent had been much needed as of taking the decision – it had already been taken in the girl’s favour, and the captain’s lofty talking of Billy’s authority savoured of pure prate, so Bones allowed himself to say…  

“Flint’s taking a girl aboard,” Gates felt his heart jump as the man, materializing out of nowhere, whispered the words into his ear.

“The fuck?” Hal grimaced, lowering his hands from the ropes he’d been uncoiling. Billy shrugged. “A girl? On board? Now?”

“Moreover, he wants you to pretend she is you daughter,” seeing Gates bogging, Bones put his hands on his hips. “Go figure it out yourself, I don’t follow him anymore.”

“Calm down, Billy.”

Bones narrowed his eyes and looked into the distance. He did regret it already.

“She’s either something Flint needs and the crew don’t, or they’ll tear her to ribbons…”

 “Don’t be too quick to judge, son,” Hal closed his eyes for a second, seeking composure. “Who is she? What’s the name?”

“I didn’t happen to catch it,”  _that’s remarkable, isn’t it?_

“Alright,” the old man looked Billy in the eyes. “Let’s see.”

“We see and what? Will you  _restrain_  him if…?”

“Billy, I said, get a fucking hold of yourself. And put you shirt on, don’t scandalize her,” Gates laughed huskily.

* * *

 

The wind was coming from the west. Something clattered next to her and she turned her head. The bearded pirate who had met them some time before appeared to feel free to scrutinize her. She eyed him head-to-toe in response. The tarp of the tents flapped.

The air in London was almost always unheated, and now her chest was sore from breathing the incandescence of the Bahamas. The boning of her corset sunk into her skin and she shifted, breathing out. Flint and Eleanor still conversed, but she could hear nothing.

“Hey,” a big shadow fell upon her. When she tilted her chin to look at him, Billy bowed his head. “Come. Meet Gates.”

The girl stood up hesitantly, the top of her head reaching his shoulder. They both had their eyes fixed upon Gates’ figure spanking towards them. He slowed down, feigning disbelief on his face. Billy sucked his teeth.  _What a performance._

“What’s your name?” she heard the older man whisper, reaching out to her.

“Galloway Faulkner,” a whisper back.

Suddenly, Gates’ acting got tenfold better. His jaw dropped and he darted forward to get the girl into a bear hug.

Bones watched the scene with his eyebrows knitted. Hal squeezed the girl even harder and shut his eyes, his face grew distorted with pain.

“God be with you, child,” he felt her hands on his back. “Hope you understand what you are getting yourself into.”

She did. And she let him know, resting her head upon his shoulder.

Well, at least now Bones could be certain Gates would bring light into the whole bloody mess.

 

The wind blew harder, hiding her face in her hair. Something went creaking and hawing.

“Oh, shit,” Billy let out a sigh.

She heard him start off, and Gates pulled back, watching the young man.

The trees the Walrus was tied to went bending. Ropes tightened.

“Get away!”

She was almost swept by the crew rushing to the ship.

“Down!”

It all mixed. The palms, uprooting, threatened to fly off. The wind bellowed.

“Quick!”

Without even realising it, she was moving. She could see Flint and Bones standing not far from the ship.

All the structures the wind ran through sang and moaned. The careening crew were fleeing, crying out warnings.

And then a scream pierced her ears.

Galloway screwed her head round.

Billy dashed forward to the hull, but Flint stopped him.  

“Randall,” she heard someone whisper behind her. 

The buzzing in the ears got almost unbearable.

The man kept screaming and it was driving her desperate. Half of the crew stood still. So did she.

“We got to cut her loose. We have no time.”

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Bones draw out his cutlass.

“This is taking too long,” said Eleanor, shuffling about.

A man shifted nearby. Galloway slowly turned her head. His long black hair was shielding the face. He was looking down on a butchers knife in his hand. They lifted their eyes simultaneously and peered at each other.

_That’s the way it goes._

The man ran towards the ship. And the screams got louder.

 

The ship fell over with all the ropes cut. All the cutlasses down.

The silence that followed deafened her.

It was stunning.

Galloway forgot to blink and her dry eyes hurt, but she kept looking.

The men grasped their heads.

Some of them stepped forward.

Billy opened his mouth slightly.

 

Captain Flint emerged from the hull, and the peculiar cook, without the cat now, was lacking a leg.

She breathed and shut her eyes.

Turning her back to the ship she headed for the town. Back to the fishwives and the odd smells.

She needed trousers. 

 

Foul winds marked her every inception, but never so in a literal sense.

* * *

 

“Because I’m afraid of him,” Billy’s eyes fortified his words. “And now he drags a girl with us.”

“Listen, Billy,” Gates put his hand on Bones’ shoulder. “He wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t an emergency…”

“You know her?”  Bones squinted at the sun, recovering his temper gradually.

“I knew her father.”

Gates went silent. He closed his eyes and, sighing, resumed.

“She has nothing to do with Flint… and his  _needs_ , as you chose to put it. Gal is… in more strife than a pregnant nun,” Hal chuckled. “And this,” he gestured to the ship. “Won’t relieve her, but it’s the only choice she has. She is a good person, son. Don’t be bothered, I’ll watch out for her, lest she goes belly up. Speak of the devil!” He smiled wide gazing into the distance.

Bones looked over his shoulder. She was slowly walking along the camp, avoiding the tents. Seeing Gates wave at her, she frowned, but changed her direction.

“No more clobber?” Hal smiled at her as she approached them. She had her dress in her hands - long fingers, nails short and clean. Now Billy could see the simple pattern of embroidery on the green fabric. His mother used to needle shoulder yokes of his shirts…

The corners of Gal’s lips turned up. She shook her head. The dark hair was put up, but a stray lock was tickling her round cheek.

“Left everything behind, aye?” Hal closed one eye, looking up at her.

“Discarded.”

“Yeah, right…” he let out a heavy sigh. “Don’t know where to put it?” Galloway shook her head again, pursing her lips. “Let me… I’ll see to it…” Gates took the clothes, smiling at her. Billy’s eyes wandered to the sea. “Just a moment…”

 

“Is it alright?”

Gal was silent for a couple of minutes, so when she spoke, Bones flinched.

“Beg you a pardon?”

“The trousers.”

He glanced at her. And the glance lingered.

A man’s shirt tucked into a pair of brown breeches that went up to her waist. A cloth, appearing to be a headscarf, tied around her hips. A thin pale scar running along the anterior forearm. Her placid, thoughtful expression and wan dark eyes.

“Yes. It’s… fine. Will do.”

Gal gulped.

“Wish to take a seat?” he was about to rise from the barrel he sat upon, but she refused.

“No… I’m fine.”

 

When Gates came back, Bones realised the girl was still near – she’d plopped down on the sand and crossed her legs – and Hal cooed over her softly, saying she’d better put something under her arse as the sand was getting cold. She thanked him and said it wasn’t necessary.

Billy kept his eyes to the horizon. The remorse sat heavy on him. Morley had indeed been putting him in a predicament and now…  _Jesus._

Timidness was something Bones had left on the Old Continent, but he never took anything for granted, especially the camaraderie of the crew. And having his loyalty queried over the fact he couldn’t muster a nerve to stick up to the captain… _Shit._

Billy shook his head and the body bag lurked into his view. His jaw flexed.

“Hello,” her voice seemed more distant than before. He twisted his head to see her sitting indeed further away that she had been.

 _She’s just being cautious_.  _I couldn’t have scared her. Have I?_

He knew he hadn’t scared her, but he had sneered upon hearing her ask Gates if she could help with anything. He didn’t mean to be rude; he didn’t even know why he did that. There was a minute confidence she might understand he wasn’t snotty, but just fucking fagged…

Why would he give a damn about what she makes of him anyway?

At first he didn’t see whom she addressed, but then he noticed Betsy sniffing the girl’s ankle.

The cat pressed her wet nose to Gal’s skin and then just bit into her. Billy couldn’t help but smile as the girl dimpled up.

“You, silly fellow,” she reached out to stroke Betsy and the beast gave her hand a butt.

“It is a girl,” Billy raised his voice so that she could hear him.

She looked at him. No apprehension.  _Yes, it was rude._

“Does she have a name?” the cat kept gnawing playfully at the girl’s fingers.

“Betsy.”

“She’s odd,” Gal lifted her hand to demonstrate that Betsy would jump a little to get hold of her piece of ‘bone’.

“It’s Randall’s,” Billy shrugged.

“Randall?” her eyebrows darkened. “Is he the one…?”

“Yes.”

“I am sorry.”

“Morley was his best mate,” Bones beckoned to the corpse. And the conscience hit him again.

“Was it the wind?” the girl didn’t seem to pay attention to Betsy climbing onto one of her knees. “Was it too rude?”

“Yes,” Bones looked down. “And also, I guess those two morons over there tied the ropes to a wrong palm, and the pull wasn’t right…”

Betsy snuffled the girl and Gal scratched her behind the ear.

“You are the quartermaster, right?”

“Yeah, I am to blame,” the words came out harsh.

“That's not... what I meant,” she lowered her voice and her head, looking back at the cat.

 _Fuck you, Billy_. He thought. _Hal wouldn’t appreciate it._

“Here she is!” the sound of Gates’ rejoice made them turn their heads. “Randall is asking for her,” the old man laughed.

“Here, take your dog,” Gal took the cat under the fore paws. “Oh, she has such a funny stomach,” the girl beamed looking up at Gates and stretching her hand full of fur to him.

Hal gave a throaty genuine laugh before looking sternly at Bones.

“Billy, come with me.”

As the quartermaster stood up, Gated shoved the cat into his chest – the animal in its turn protracted its claws right into his flesh and Billy swore under his breath.

 

“I repeat once again, she has nothing to do with our calamities, let alone she isn’t the origin, so please…”

“I am not stupid,” Bones tried his best to detach the bloody claws from his shirt as they went deeper into the camp. It didn’t even occur to him to hold anything against her. “Will you explain…?”

“I will. Son, I’m only asking you… treat her as a brother. She has no better place to be at but here, and you fucking know how good it is. She is in for no joy, but if we manage to put even a little smile on that face – I’d be utterly glad…”

“Do I look like a bleeding jester?”

“You do not,” Hal said calmly, raising his eyebrows. “See after her till I come back, will you?”

“I have things to see to,” with Betsy finally in Gates’ hands, Billy crossed his arms.

“Had you shit to do, you wouldn’t be sitting there stock-still,” seeing the young man frown deeper, Hal patted him on the shoulder. “It is not your fault. Go, take a rest. We are off to sort out a great deal of mess…”

Billy’s jaw jumped, but he depressed his eyes and tilted his head.

 

On his way back, Bones took his and Gates’ blankets from their tent. 

He could see her rinsing her bitten hand in the seawater.

Gates was right. Scaring her away meant her fleeing, losing her last chance, as everybody kept reminding him it was, and dying somewhere else; and maybe for  _that_  Billy would never give himself the absolution. She just came for help and having received the minuscule aid, stayed put and never bothered anyone. She even offered her own assistance…

And that thousand yard stare of hers was starting to dissuade him she was just a mad lass with queer fads. Something about her seemed genuinely distraught.

“You can go inside,” he told her. “If you want.”

“No, um, thank you,” she forced a polite smile. “I’ll be fine.”

_I knew it._

“Take it,” he waved the blanked in his outstretched hand. “The sand is getting cold, Gates didn’t lie.”

She reached for the fabric, and Billy gently handed it to her. Gal folded it before she sat down upon it. Billy, though, spread his one on the sand and lay on his back.

“He told you to do that.”

“Pardon me?”

“Gates.”

Billy hesitated to answer.

“He doesn’t think it was you fault. And I bet he is a man whose word can be given credence to.”

Bones chuckled at her.

“Am I?”

He had to undergo a scrutinizing examination of her eyes before she uttered, “I’d wager”.

“And the captain?”

“Um-hum.”

“So you know straight away who deserves trust and who doesn’t?” he closed his eyes, putting his hands under his head.

“I wish I did.”


	2. V.

Gates found the girl on the exact same spot. She was diving her fingers into the sand, staring at the water. The vivacity of the setting sun reflected in the ripples and the sea looked like a giant sapphire canvas with moving strokes of pink and orange. The man crouched down next to her.

They talked in whispers so as not to awake Billy breathing heavily in his sleep.

“…wish I could say we’d sort it out, but… it’s gotta be alright, kid," Hal squeezed her shoulder before leaving and cast a look at Bones. “Dormouse,” he chuckled softly.

The sun had already set deep below the horizon when Galloway got back to losing herself in contemplation of the scenery. The dapple was long gone, only mellow flecks of the moon danced on the surface of the slack sea.

She realised she was well-nigh the only one admiring the waterscape, for she herself made for a view for the pirates. _For what possible reason?_ Galloway sneered at herself.

There was much less people on shore now, for the Walrus had been floated out and some of the crew were on watch on board. Some of those still on land looked about her or simply unceremoniously stared, but never chanced to come close.

_Maybe ‘s ‘cause of him?_

The girl discreetly lowered her eyes at the body lying just steps away from her. Bones had his hands under his nape, his massive arms flat on the blanket. More belts than she reckoned necessary embraced his torso. Two daggers tucked in. And she was sure he had a cutlass, maybe a firearm as well, anyhow, he had more weapons than hands. His legs were crossed at ankles. Bones seemed so peaceful and sound asleep, and it felt like a cannon shot wouldn’t wake him up. 

Galloway shivered and drew her eyes back at the water. If only she could sleep like that…

 

It’d been hours until she felt her eyes grow bleary…

“Hit the deck!”

She shifted her gaze from the sea. Flint was running through the camp, shouting his lungs out.

“We are sailing. Now.”

Bones awakened with a start next to her.

“Get her running.”

He jumped to his feet and, without throwing a single look at the girl, dashed towards the camp, gathering speed.

Gal stood up as well, but slowly and cautiously. _What am I supposed to do?_

Waiting for an invitation to join the vessel made no sense, jumping the gun even less so.

“Galloway!”

Eleanor’s feet faltered in the sand. She hastily took Gal's hand in her own, looking at the girl alarmed.

“It’ll be alright,” the girl squeezed Miss Guthrie’s fingers. “Please, don’t worry,” her voice softening, guilt flooding her body.

“I’ll keep watch over the situation here,” the marketeer had, in fact, already started the undertaking. “And will advise you if anything is amiss, good? You shall be safe.”

“Thank you.”

“Galloway! Come!” Gates shouted, looking at the women over the shoulder. He was reaching a hand for her.

* * *

 

She clasped his hand and pulled herself up, bracing on the board. When she swung her legs over and finally touched the timber of the deck with her feet, Gates put his hand on her back. Logan, who’d embarked only a few seconds before, measured her with a surprised eye and jerked up his brows.

“Right,” whispered Hal and cleared his throat. “Gentlemen!”

The pirates half-willingly pried themselves away from their engagements, searching for the ex-quartermaster with their eyes. Billy held onto a rope, he couldn’t really miss the deck theatricality. The girl stood behind Gates, studying the ship.

“Oh, you took a whore aboard?” hooted someone.

Bones rolled his eyes _. I knew it._

“I’d like to introduce you to my daughter, Galloway. Should anyone else find courage to speak of her the same way Mr. Ewan just did, or hurt her, or touch her, I’ll consider it as if you don’t appreciate you balls attached to your bodies and I’ll feel free to relieve you of the burden. Did I make myself understood?”

‘Aye’ echoed in a chorus of voices, followed by the noise of the crew setting to work.

“All right,” the man smiled.

 

Gates sent her off to the stern deck to find a spot and never move unless asked for help. So she did, witnessing the land getting smaller before completely blurring out of the sight. The Walrus was gathering way. _Father, I am here._

She closed her eyes when a spray of the sea sprinkled her face.

 

_She stands still, watching the coffin lowered into the grave. No one utters a word. The pants and sighs of the men doing the job, accompanied by the squelch of their boots in the soil of the cemetery, are the only sounds dissolving the silence._

_‘Petal, it’s going to be alright.’ Her father’s voice floods her head. ‘We’ll make it. We’ll make it up for you.’ He was holding her trembling body in his arms, stoking her back. His eyes open and big, looking far, far away._

_She gulps, her chin flickers._

_‘I’ll make it up for you. I’ll make it up for you. I’ll make it up. I will…’_

_Her thoughts are interrupted by the soft sound of footsteps coming from behind._

_“It’s a pity, isn’t it?” his voice is deep and cold._

_She doesn’t turn to the man._

_“It’s only so usual in this life that after great success comes great grief…Hope you don’t feel guilty for…”_

_“Are you admitting your bearing a relation to the death of my father?” she stares ahead._

_“I do not. But, as I see it now, the thought has crossed your mind. And I’d advise you to abandon it.”_

_“I’ll consider your advice on its merits.”_

 

Before she even knew it, she was bending over the board, emptying her stomach.

A hand grabbed the waist-band of her pants, dragging her down.

“If you a’ slinging the cat now, when the see is quiet, afraid to think what will happen when it’s sto’ming,” a dark-skinned man chuckled at her. “You good?”

She just nodded, forcing a weak smile.

“Flint is asking fo’ you,” Joshua winked at her before waltzing away.

By mischance, or rather by Flint’s order, the crew raised the topgallants exactly the same moment she stepped back from the board. The Walrus was quite successful in pursuing the Andromache, the ship motions were in full blast which only meant she’d met the deck with a couple of body parts and scratched some chippings of the boards before reaching the rudder, soaked to the bone in salty water, hair sticking to her face.

“Get my logs to Dufresne,” she heard the captain shout over the commotion. Galloway frowned and suddenly buckled back as the ship lurched again, but someone bolstered her up from behind. “The tall one, with glasses,” Flint clarified. “Orlop deck.”

_Well, being a scut monkey isn’t the worst of possible options. It may, in point of fact, be the best._

The girl nodded and started off in the direction of the captain’s cabin.

“Believe she knows what orlop means, cap’n?” chuckled the man on the helm.

“Unless you think she flew over here on the back of an eagle, she has indeed been aboard a ship,” gritted Flint.

* * *

 

“He's certain this is all we have?” Bones asked Dufresne sinking into the journal the girl had brought: she practically flew down the ladder into Logan’s back, then eyed the three man standing there, and deducted the only one she hadn’t yet been acquainted with was the said Dufresne. Puffing, she held out the log.

“Food, water, powder, all of it. There’s nothing more,” read the accountant, shaking his head.

She frowned. _Aren’t we…_

“I believe the word you're looking for is ‘fucked’,” Logan seemed to have grasped the idea as well.

 “Yeah, “ so did Billy. “Thank you.”

_Oh, well, we are._

“Dufresne?” Bones handed the accountant a pistol.

“You can't be serious.”

“Andromache's manned like a warship. We'll need everybody we can muster on this one.”

“You may as well arm the girl then,” Dufresne waved his hand at her, shrugging.

Billy closed his eyes and opened them again to look at her. _If she dies, she dies – it’s that easy._ He couldn’t say he shared Eleanor’s judgement, though he considered arming the girl just for the sake of it for a sheer second.

She was looking at him inquisitively from under her eyebrows. She did indeed want to be armed.

“Stay out of this, will you?” his voice was low and soft when he addressed her, but nevertheless she felt he meant it and insisting wasn’t an option. Galloway pursed her lips and glanced sideways at Dufresne with a pistol in his hand.

A few minutes later she learned that confronting Bones was quite an option.

She came up on the main deck right when he started briefing the crew. Logan patted next to himself, inviting her to sit down, and she perched by.

“Gentlemen, I think we all know what we're up against today, so let's just get to it.”

Gal appreciated his quick wit. With her head reclined upon her hand she watched him introduce two brushes as an illustrative support of his address. She did admire him, and wasn’t really shy about it. The way he fenced all the questions and doubts of the crew concerning their probable lack of success in boarding the Andromache… The girl even found herself sceptical his gimmick was best-case, but something about him was very potent.

“Of course we'd need to board alongside her. We just need Captain Bryson to cooperate and bring the Andromache about for us to do so.”

“And how the hell do we get him to do that?” Logan shifted, almost displacing the girl.

“Mr Beauclerc is going to convince him.”

Well, Mr Beauclerc himself didn’t appear quite convinced, but Logan cocked his head and beckoned once. He didn’t rush to get up when the instruction was over.

“This sissy,” the man laughed quietly.

Galloway followed his eyes.

“But I've never even shot a pistol.”

“Well, that's all right,” Bones looked at Dufresne indulgently. “Half the time they don't even fire.”

The girl felt her mouth quirk, but when she realised Logan was watching her, she put on a solemn face and turned to him, narrowing her eyes.

“What’s a bow chaser?” she whispered to see him snicker.

* * *

 

Bones was now trying his best to get Dufresne stop making messes in his pants and agree to join the vanguard, and seeing the girl heading in their direction he didn’t quite know whether she’d help or make his efforts wreck.

“Men die all the time. It can't be true that no one eats it their first time over the side,” Dufresne was hard to reason and to lie to.

“No, not first-timers. Name one. You're gonna be all right.”

 

“If no one does die their first, why wouldn’t you…”

 _Oh you._ She spoke in presence of Dufresne so Bones couldn’t just dodge or admit he had lied.

“You ain’t part of the crew,” he only half-glowered at her.

“So?” she stiffened her lips, brows sinking down.  “I don’t want be the only dawdle.”

“Listen, I’m not trying to disdain you,” Billy said firmly, gesturing his hand. “I want you to get out of this unhurt. It solely stands to reason.”

He could see her nostrils flare as she looked down. Then she took a slant at Dufresne who still was a bit slavering over the issue and shifted her gaze at Bones. Billy rolled his eyes. She was vastly impervious to his bullshit and prevaricating wasn’t an option anymore – he didn’t even have time for elaborating new excuses, what was the point if all the previous ones skidded to a halt. Galloway studied his war-painted face, the blue eyes lucid against the sooty skin, jaws flexing, brow furrowed. He didn’t know how, but the solid look of her next to black eyes overbore all his arguments. _This is beyond the pale, but…_

“For the hell with it,” he grunted, gritting his teeth. Better give her something than later reproach himself seeing her stone cold body. He looked up at the Andromache, then down at himself. He had a cutlass, but it wouldn’t do, he thought, as it was almost as long as half of her body.  

“Here you go,” he set his eyes on her, drawing out his shorter dagger and handing it to the girl. “Do you even know how to handle it?”

“I’ll make sense of it,” she wrapped her fingers around the handle and it fit perfectly.

Billy looked at the sea again. A woman and a naval combat never blended, only Anne Bonny could pull it off. But Galloway was nowhere near Bonny, nether she struck him as one trying to lure a weapon out of someone only to prove she wasn’t flimsy. If, _be it_ , she was there to stay, she had to learn how to survive, and her eyes told him she did understand that.

“Alright, attack me.”

The girl squinted at him.

“I know you discredit my battle capacity, well, you have a point, and you gave me a dagger,” she smiled serenely and warmly. “You are not letting me join the vanguard,” _How is she so smart and so unreasonable at the same time?_ “So I only need to fend off.”

“Good, sensible,” there was a fair amount of alleviation in his tone. “What if I attack?” he stepped forward. Gal held tight to her, well, his dagger.

“Doubt there’s going to be anyone as big as you,” she said frankly.

“Does it make a difference?” he now was hovering over her, her head bent back. Billy watched her wide open eyes roam his face. They were as wide as Dufresne's, but no unmanly fear present.  

“I reckon it does.”

“Let’s entertain the possibility.”

“The possibility to be entertained is not that there might be men as hefty as you, but that all the men who are to approach me will eventually get as close to me as you are now. Not necessarily trying to kill me,” he felt the point of his own dagger press against his lower stomach. “The guts,” she went navigating the tip across his torso. ”the stomach, the liver, the spleen, the heart, though I wouldn’t aim for it ‘cause of the ribs.”

Gates stood observing them, having approached Galloway a few moments before to stop her from picking at Bones with no need for it - they were at the sea and any moment the Andromache could fire and she would go falling or faltering and puncturing the quartermaster. But, judging by the look in Billy’s eyes, though the girl said she wasn’t to aim at the heart, Hal felt that eventually, sooner or later, realised it Bones or not, it was exactly the spot she’d unwittingly end up in.

Bones smiled at her. The girl took a step back, lowering the dagger, and he made a long neck to get a better view of Mr.Beauclerc above them.

“Incoming!”

 

Galloway fell, praying to all the Gods she wouldn’t injure a member of _her_ own crew. Her ears were ringing and she pressed her palm to the side of her face. Men were screaming. That was what she expected it to be like, at the same time she wouldn’t imagine it unwind so fast.

“Get 'em back into the cookroom!” she could hear Billy yell beside.

Dufresne pressed his head to the deck right next to her. There was blood already.

Galloway raised herself upon her elbows and scanned the floor for the dagger. Scrambling to her feet she almost reached it, but another shot hit the Walrus and she tumbled again. _At least now it’s closer to me._ She bit her lower lip and grasped the knife right when a loud voice cried out ‘Get them back’ and someone’s fingers got hold of her upper arm.

Once on her feet, the girl swayed into Bones.

There was nothing for her to do but follow him, her only recourse.

“Can you throw?” he dropped.

_Is he talking to me?_

“Yeah…?”

Without another word he handed her a round grenade. She had to admit, it looked smaller in his hand, moreover, it turned out be heavier than she anticipated. But there was no turning back.

“Alright?“ he whispered. “On my mark.”

“Why’d you trust me with this?”

But he already looked away. ‘ _Cause you either learn how or learn it’s not your scene._

 

Everything went silent.

Nobody seemed to give a flying fuck about the girl crouching next to Billy, in possession of a grenade, all in mud already, dagger in her hand, blade to the back, onto the floor. Breathing heavily.

While Dufresne was recollecting his courage by ounce, Galloway was continuously impressing Billy with having some of it yet to spare.

When pistols fired, though, taking some people down, he saw her mouth 'shite'. They ducked her heads.

 _Oh, Jesus_.

“Twenty yards, at the ready,” Bones shouted, deafening her. No reply needed, his igniter kissing the wick of her grenade, his hand cradled hers for support.

_It’s now, isn’t it?_

Galloway straightened above the board and making a sweeping motion of the arm threw the round beast. And she didn’t miss the Andromache’s deck, for a wonder.

The girl felt a bullet catch the skin on her wrist.

“You got her,” his voice loud. “Nets in!”

 _Enough for the first time_. He thought, pressing his palm heavily on her back, bringing her to huddle up, all while shouting out orders and keeping an eye on the Andromache and Dufresne…

In a few moments when they closed the distance, Billy went in, leaving the girl behind. With the vanguard climbing out of the Walrus, she retreated. Virtually, she was driven away by kicking for the pirates rushed over the side, paying next to zero attention to the little jostled ferret. _Do I get any more stupid?_

There wasn’t much she could see, it was all about the sounds. Shouting. Bullets. Even blood.

_How fast life is changing._

Gal stood on the deck of the Walrus, listening to the men fight and skin each other.

But then a body came falling over her. She didn’t think she had seen the man before.  

She turned the dagger in her hand, the point facing the stranger.

But he raised his pistol at her. Something neither her nor Bones had foreseen. Gal wasn’t really too desperate to get shot, so she ventured to attack. It must have looked awkward – her jumping forward with a dagger in her stretched arm - but she managed to slide his wrist, cutting the tendons. The man let go of his gun.

“Oh, mother,” she whispered almost inaudibly, gathering her brows.

“You, whore,” he spit.

The girl was breathing hard. She could hear the blood pulsating in her temple. Gal barely knew it but she had her dagger pressed to his throat – the deftness she never believed she possessed. But he turned out to be nimbler, pushing her and sending her flying down.

“The hell are you doing here, aren’t you supposed to maintain defence on your ship?”

He didn’t answer, just grunted, stepping closer to her and lifting his foot in an attempt to boot her, but she kicked the leg he had on the ground. The first consequence was - the man fell upon her, the second consequence was – with the dagger now upright, it was his spleen that met the knife.

Galloway struggled to get him off her. The man was panting and moaning: the spleen wasn't enough to finish him on the spot, but his writhing self indicted his hours were numbered. She faltered a few paces back, the dagger dancing in her shaking hand. 

And someone shot him. The girl turned her head in an instant but failed to make out who it was – the Andromache was a mess.

 

When the mess was over, Joshua was the first to approach her. He clapped her on the back, and taking the dagger out of her hands, wiped it on the dead man’s shirt.

“Here you a’,” he lifted the corpse and eased it into the water. “Go, rest. It’s not ova’ yet. The rats a’ hiding below the decks,” he handed the dagger back to her and smiled wide, exhibiting his dental adornments inspiring nothing but consternation. “Have fun.”

* * *

 

“Miranda Barlow,” Bones whispered, feeling the letter. 

His brows twitched. _The woman... Oh shit!_

The lady who either kept failing trying to annoy him, or simply assiduously sought to disabuse the men of the notion of her worthlessness - he’d not seen her after the battle, which could mean she resolved to indulge him and sit tight or … he was at fault for something very, very evil.

Billy blinked at the accountant.

“‘Ve you seen…” he asked. “ … Gates’ girl?”

Dufresne rolled his eyes, but so that Bones wouldn’t notice it. _The fucking girl_. By dint of whom he had to go through the trial by fire... But Billy noticed and chose to conceal his smile. Her not shying away from the battle did indeed wound Dufresne’s vanity.

“She’s on the Walrus’s side, well, she was when I was back there…”

Well, maybe he had to go and check on her, but, in the end, Gates was supposed to be shepherding her, not Bones. 

 

When she’d first molested Dufresne with her much more valiant attitude to combat, the accountant proposed to Billy they should lock her down in the hold. A pirate standing near shot him an asquint look.

“She’s not an animal, is she?” Bones shook his head.

Galloway seemed to have her luck as she ended up on a ship with at least a couple of gallant souls.

 

Bones stepped outside and spun his head round to run his eyes over his ship.  

His heart clenched. She was perilously hunkering on the gunwale, balancing her body on heels and bottom. _Jesus, is she really trying to get herself killed?_

But Gal seemed quite comfortable in the acquired position.

Billy breathed out, somewhat relieved. She was alive, watching the Andromache’s deck closely. Her blouse was covered in blood, and the wrist of the hand she propped her head on was bleeding. She was either deliberately neglecting it, or didn’t happen to notice the wound.

Galloway’s pensive eyes were flowing along the ship, but then her concentrated face changed. She drew the hand away from her face, opening her mouth…

Bones quickly followed her alerted stare. One of the slaves sent to deliver the Andromache captain’s message was lighting a grenade in his hand.

“Look out!”

Billy already had. His pistol was pointed at the slave. And he didn’t hesitate to shoot.  
When the slave’s body, torn asunder, scattered in all directions, the girl winced. That time she managed to locate the shooter. Bones lowered his gun and, to Gal’s great surprise, turned to her with a questioning look. Seeing her swallow, he gave her a nod.

Galloway nodded back, parting her lips.

_You, Billy Bones, are an art of a pirate._


	3. VI.

Gal never thought she would ever have to thank Mr. Ewan, but there she was, with a couple dozen of porcelain plates piled in her hands and pressed against her chest. She watched her step carefully as she walked across the deck.

“Just huddle them somewhere down in the hold,”said Logan to receive a scathing look.

Since Captain Bryson had discarded of the porcelain by throwing it out of the hold before the battle, most of the pieces had shattered, and Galloway almost lost a finger trying to save at least some plates in among countless chips. Then she had to carefully pile them, receiving a concerned glance from Gates and an indifferent one from Flint, and walk the gangplank to the accompaniment of jeers from the crew. When she acquired enough refinement to get to the deck without losing anything, Galloway was on the verge of a triumphant smile, but she caught sight of Billy. He looked exacerbated and for a second she believed he held a grudge against her, but the notion he probably didn’t pay her that much mind alleviated her own. Anyway, she formed an attachment of the tenderest nature to the bloody plates and Logan suggested her _huddling_ them?

The girl carefully secured the porcelain in the hold, muffling it up with all the straw she could find, and went back onto the Andromache to sweep the captain’s quarters.

Mr. Ewan had asked her to help the crew with the prize. It was of tiniest significance to him – she could only carry the lightest things, and there weren’t many of those – but to her it was an honour. May be the crew really needed a pair of hands, maybe the pirate just wished to reclaim the misfire of the earlier, it didn’t matter much as long as it made her feel less useless. And so it did, for the whole half an hour, until there was nothing left for her to work with. Her duties didn’t expand, and she found herself occupying the already fancied spot on the gunwale again.

* * *

 

“Where’s Howell?” Billy looked down at Muldoon.

“In ‘is quarters. Becker’s lost a leg…”

“I see,” Bones cast a glance at the smallish silhouette on the board, black against the night sky.

“Cap’n says no light,” Muldoon remarked, seeing the quartermaster snatch the igniter.

“I know.”

There was a breach in the board a couple of feet from where she sat, and Bones made a mark to have it fixed later, when they were docked back in Nassau.

It was the most dramatic shit he had ever done. Decidedly, he had been trying to take against the Empire, had slayed the person who’d impressed him, in a slight huff, joined the pirate brethren and proceeded slaying people in all kinds of ways…  But then he overscored it and said ‘Go find trousers and you are good’ and let her aboard. He didn’t demure at letting her aboard and thus let her risk her life at every turn, sit on the gunwale, threatening to slip down, help the crew, threatening  to fall into the water while crossing the gangplank and bringing him to tauten thinking he’d be the one to fish her out. And that was just the beginning. She’d have it much harder if she retained the resolution to stay with the pirates. The people she was to crew with knew nothing about embroidery, crochet, lace, and all the other mierda women were so enthusiastic about… Billy almost chuckled. It was as though Gates took a Betsy aboard and bid him to keep an eye on her – that could’ve been something Bones used to justify the fact the girl preoccupied him a tinge more than he cared to admit. She was indeed a curious creature.

 

“You’re hurt.”

Galloway wrung her head around. She recognised him by the big frame and low voice because she couldn’t really make out his face: he was standing against the moonlight.

“No, no,” she hastened to shake her head. “I’m fine.”

“The blood?”                                                                        

“’s not mine,” her eyes dropped to fasten on the shirt. It used to be beige. She had almost killed a person.

“I mean your wrist,” Billy fingered the igniter impatiently.

She finally realised it had been nagging for a while. The girl held her forearm up to her eyes to take a look at the tiny wound. It wasn’t bleeding anymore, the gore was dark red. Must have been the bullet.

“Oh,” she sighed. “It’s nothing.”

“Even the tiniest cut can turn gangrenous,” Billy yanked his brows up. The girl looked at him frowningly.  She opened her mouth, but to no result. _Is that so? And if so, so?_

“Come,” Billy offered his forearm to her for support, making sure she wouldn’t fall overboard. Galloway took no notice of the gesture, relying on her hands as she let her feet dangle. Bones drew a deep breath, “follow me.”

Gal pursed her lips. The thought she’d been abusing Billy’s leniency had already lurked into her mind, but now he was offering assistance on his own initiative. _What’s the catch?_

Bones led the girl to the captain’s quarters and, disregarding Flint’s order, lit a candle. He silently gestured to the table.

The girl slightly perched on the edge of it and followed Billy’s every movement with her eyes. The deep furrow on his forehead, the broad shoulders, the cutlass clinking against the boarding axe he adjusted to his belt.

“Is everything all right?” she said quietly.

“Hmm?” Billy turned to Gal, unsure what she was on about.  “Ah, yeah, fine,” he supposed it was for his arm: he almost got it shot off, throwing a grenade under the Andromache’s deck. It was far bigger than the girl’s injury, and it could easily turn gangrenous as well… but he had survived for more than five years as a pirate, and they said it meant he was lucky. Luck, deftness of skill, wits – whatever it was, his wound could wait.

“Something’s tormenting you. And it’s not the Navy,” she trailed off.

Billy opted for ignoring her, pretending to be too occupied with his quest for a cloth and some alcohol.

“There’s rum,” he lifted the bottle to shake it up and uncorked it. “It’s gonna burn a bit.”

He found her looking at him unflinching. Her eyes mild, the hair framing her face.

His imagination quickly drew a straw hat on her head, silk ribbons tied under her chin, a light-coloured blouse that actually fit her, her hand holding onto a wooden wicket. And she smiled, dimpling up.

The light flickered, yanking him out of the sunlit fib.

_What the fuck was that?_

Bones swallowed. Her gaze had already drifted down to his fingers squeezing the bottle.

Billy put out his other hand. He couldn’t just grab hold of her, could he?

Galloway produced her arm to him, twisting it in the wrist. Bending his neck, Billy squinted at the cut before eventually touching the girl. Her hand instantly curled in a fist as he reached for her skin, tendons popped up. He glanced at her for a second.

Her skin was soft, but cold against his burning palm. He wrapped his fingers around her forearm, drawing it to his eyes.

“It may scar…too.”

The girl gathered her eyebrows and lifted her gaze at him. Billy simply beckoned to her other forearm with a white thin seam. He tarried. Up close it looked too even, too straight, too _exact._ A question bobbed up in his mind, and before he could hold his tongue, the words had already bubbled over.

“It’s not self-inflicted, is it?”

She froze.

“No,” she whispered breathless. “It is not.”

“Who did it?”

There was nothing in her belly to throw up with, but sickness rushed to her throat.

Galloway dropped staring.

“No one. A misadventure,” she lied. “And I know where the veins run,” she added gravely.

 _Whatever._ Billy shrugged. 

With one hand he wetted the cloth with rum, covering the neck with the fabric and quickly turning the bottle upside-down. _She has a right to keep her 'misadventures' to herself._

“’s captain Flint, is it not?” her hand jerked when he dabbed the wound. Whether because of that, or because of the question – she didn’t know - Billy gripped her wrist tighter. It was almost too tight. The cloth stayed pressed to her skin and he wouldn’t answer again, so she looked up. 

Bones was staring into her eyes.

She couldn’t have overheard their conversation with the captain when they set sail, and whatever he’d told her the previous evening couldn’t possibly afford grounds for her baring his seething mind.

_She wasn’t just watching the crew, she was observing. And, shit, she is observant._

“You don’t trust your captain, quartermaster.”

“And you shouldn’t,” Bones wagged his head, wiping the cut clean. “Nonsense to think he would regard you. He does not spare his men.”

“A bold statement.”

“A true one,” he wrapped a dry piece of cloth around her wrist, tying it tightly.

She looked down at his hands, black from soot and red from blood, rough and calloused and incredibly warm.

“Keep your wits about. If you don’t wanna die in a blaze of glory…”

“Dying with the pride intact isn’t really an option,” the girl breathed out, watching his fingers. “I only wish it won’t be the English…”

Billy frowned. There were many things he couldn’t grasp at the given moment, Flint one of them, but her words got him completely bewildered. _Why would she not care for her survival, isn’t it a primary instinct? Is she mad? She doesn’t look it._

She looked fine, her voice was gentle and she smelled… _Stop_.

“Thank you,” Galloway said when he let go of her wrist.

Bones turned away, reaching for the letter.

The girl pursed her lips and unstuck from the table, but hardly had she taken a step when Billy’s fingers wrapped around her arm. He was already engaged with the writing.

She stood next to him like a delinquent, relieved his firm hold didn’t linger. She waited him to request an order or ask something of her, but his eyes grew wide and his mouth fell open.  Galloway moved closer, concerned.

He had stopped her from leaving alone, but he was sure he had never invited her to read the letter. But there she was – eyeing it with curiosity. At the back of his mind there was a nagging thought that by any stretch he would never rally enough spirit to kill her if she learned something she wasn’t supposed to.

He even considered elbowing her to get her nose out of it, but decided against it.

“Jesus,” he breathed out. She saw the letter read 'betrayal' and it never was a word nourishing high hopes.

Billy jerked up, but felt her palm on his arm.

“Hey,” she grabbed at him.

“Fucker….” he whispered absent-mindedly. He was lost.  

“You don’t think of confronting him now, do you?”

His surly glance betrayed his stupor.

“Whatever this is about, now is not the time to question the authority of a captain leading a battle,” she whispered to him, looking worried. The line appeared on her forehead. Her lips were dry and chapped, tiny red lines cutting the delicate skin.

“Why would you care?” he snapped. Galloway sucked in a breath. “Thought you didn’t mind dying,” Bones was sharp. If she had her luck not coming across _how_ discourteous pirates were in deed, he feared he was about to show her. He didn’t need her level-heading him now, enough trouble with Gates. _Might she really be his daughter? Did he brief her before letting her aboard?_

“I don’t think you crew sees things the way I do,” she shrugged, appealing to the clemency he’d happened to manifest.

Billy folded the letter, holding her reticent gaze.

“Moreover, I’m alive after the battle. A bit cheerful, can’t you see?” Gal smiled bashfully. “Might want to live an extra day or two.”

He didn’t return the smile. Not on the surface.

* * *

 

He knew she was watching him as he stood on the deck of Andromache, Logan challenging him to prove Flint wrong. He did believe the assignment to cut holes in the deck whilst hanging on a rope was suicidal, and hoped she shared the opinion. But when he looked to check on her, she wasn’t there.

His first thought was that she’d fallen overboard and sank. But he soon caught sight of her dark head – she was on the Andromache, talking to one of the crew.

Later, when they cut the Walrus loose from the Andromache, Bones remembered that moment.

 

Galloway was nothing if not perceptive and having been observing the ship for the whole night she was the one to draw the attention of the watch to the white cloth, the signal from the slaves chained in the hold.

That was how she got on board Bryson’s ship.

 

Sheathing his cutlass, he looked around searching for her restless ass. But then he heard someone scream the words that made his blood got thin.

“Gates! You girl! The Andromache…”

 

…And no one on the crew took notice of the fact she never made it back to the Walrus. She must’ve been knocked out by the explosion. And when she came to life, murky moonlight and the din of the ships she knew she was, _well, fucked._

 

She clambered up, holding to the timber of the board. Her head was splitting and eyes hurt, mouth tasted of blood. The Walrus was pulling out stern over bow.

Galloway knew they weren’t turning for her. For almost ten seconds she was preparing herself for the inevitable fatality her life was to end with, but then she beheld Billy rush to the board of his ship. And then she knew she had to stay there and die, because if she made it back to Flint’s ship and lived, Bones would kill her with his bare hands.

It was exactly what he was pondering over, as he was gathering rope to throw to her. He was furious.

“You bastard,” he hissed to himself seeing the rope catch a side of her face before she snapped the end of it.

“Get a grip,” yelled Gates.

“That’s unrivaled…”

“It is not her fault,” Hal said sternly, tracking the girl coiling the rope round her palm.

Galloway hastily scaled onto the slick gunwale. The rope tightened, and remembering it was Billy creating the pull, she jumped. She tried to make sure it were her feet, not the face, that touched the hull first, but her soles slipped and she was hanging thigh-deep in the ice-cold water. Holding the rope with one hand, she hurried to unwind the sling from the other palm. Bones gave a tug up, but seeing her glide down an inch, halted. When she finally grabbed the rope with her two hands, he went on.

“Good,” Hal’s voice was coming from above her as she was climbing hand over fist.

The fiber was rubbing her palms sore and the boots kept slipping down the wood every time she tried to gain balance.

Gates saw Galloway look over her shoulder, and as she got sight of the Scarborough further from the horizon than she was comfortable with, she peered at Billy with alert in her eyes.

“I know,” he breathed out and flexed his jaw, underruning the rope in his steady hands.

“She’s got balls bigger than mine…” Hal marvelled under his breath.

The dirty fingers of her left hand clasped the board.

Bones put his foot down on the rope, fixating it, and stretched forth to grab her under the armpits, gathering her close. Her chin grazed against his solid shoulder and she produced a wet sob.  Her weight was so congenial to hold.

Gates had to step back to allow Billy drag the girl aboard. He saw her hold to his upper arms, leaving smudges of blood on his skin.

His embrace escaped the moment she felt the deck under her feet. Wide-eyed she looked at him, breathing hard.

“Thank you,” she uttered when she found her voice again.  

Bones knew she was being too bold with a lady he knew for a day, but he moved her dishevelled hair and cradled her face, bringing her to tip her head back with his thumb pushing her chin up. There was almost no mark on the jaw, but a rich bruise was ripening down the girl’s neck. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he proceeded to examine her face.

He was too close and Galloway almost staggered back, but there was nothing but countenance radiating from him. He meant no harm. The warmth of his body and the tangy scent of sweat and gunpowder were producing a rather soothing effect.

“’s all right,” the girl nodded in assurance and touched his forearm gently. “Thank you.”

Billy blinked, beckoning in return, and withdrew his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

“’s all right,” she repeated and Bones frowned, parting his lips.

Walking away a couple of moments later, he could hear Gates hush Galloway, though Bones believed she didn’t really need it.

* * *

 

The Scarborough was closing on the Walrus. Reflexively, the girl pressed her palms to the board to get a better view of the water, but felt a nasty sting in the busted blisters. _And that can turn gangrenous._ She let out a soundless grown and raised her eyes at the Scarborough again to see a blossom of light on its side.

_Oh, sweet Jesus._

She couldn’t see the ship anymore, for the scenery changed from the water to the sky and masts and sails, and then she finally hit the deck with her back. The spine cracked. Someone’s knobby legs jammed her to the floor. Galloway sat up. She almost succeeded at helping the pirate up and let her stand, but someone grabbed him, forcing him to the feet. The same hands then reached out to her. _Billy?_

It was not. A young pirate with thick, braided hair, jerked her up.

“Man overboard!”

The girl had only a faintest idea what a spritsail brace was, what the hell the whole thing looked like and what it was for, however she savvied why Flint and Bones went to cut its ropes. What she knew for a fact was what the exclamation indicated.

“Man overboard,” shouted the pirate next to her, and then someone else.  

_If anyone has enough luck to end up overboard, it should be me._

“It’s Billy.”

_No, it’s not._

Her vision blurred for a moment and next thing she knew, she was bending over the board. The sea was devouring flotsam like quicksand.

There was no sign of him.

“Jesus.”

It felt like half of the crew were screaming out his name, but in vain.

Galloway quickly made her way to Gates to inquire how they were to save him, the wet fabric of the trousers sticking to her legs and almost restraining.

“We can’t turn back. She’ll tear us to pieces.”

When Hal turned away from the horizon, dropping his head, he saw her staring at him. Her plaintive eyes saying, ‘No’.

He shook his head once and put his hand on her shoulder.

“You all right?”

The concern in his eyes was genuine, but it was fogged by woe. The right words wouldn’t form in her mind, and Gates saw it. He cocked his head for her to quit trying.

The Walrus was gaining knots, and she could witness them shaking off the Scarborough, standing at the aft deck.

 

He couldn’t take his leave like that, succumbing to a cresting wave of the salty sea, letting the water close over and nurse him.

* * *

 

“William ‘Bones’ Manderly.”

She watched Dufresne with her mouth slightly open. She didn’t feel like crying and wondered if she had to. It was excruciating to stand there and force herself to believe she wasn’t going to see him again, hear his scarcely annoyed, but heartfelt voice inquiring about her.

_That can’t be true._

A cutlass cut through the water, leaving her wondering how could it be. She still felt his hand that branded the skin on her neck. The warmth of his chest. The dismay in his eyes. His whisper as he swore…

_He’s not…_

 

_“Miss Faulkner…” the maid is running towards her, leaving the door of the house ajar. “Miss Faulkner, it’s your father…”_

_Gal picks up the pace, rushing to the woman. She makes it through the house, followed by the lady, and exits through the back door. The girl darts her head to her left._

_He lies there with his hand on his stomach, limbs lifeless. The sky is gray and heavy._

_Gal kneels to him, her fingers gripping his shirt. She tries to shake him up, then smoothens all the creases of his dress._

_“Father?” she whispers to him. “Father!” her hands cup his face. He isn’t breathing. She doesn’t want to notice the blood. “Dad.”_

_She turns to the maid._

_Her legs give way and she falls back onto her bottom. Her arms feel like cotton. Heartbeat low._

 

Gates couldn’t draw his eyes away from the water.

The crew left to their quarters.

He perceived the girl standing next to him.

 

Her body swayed a little as she held to the board.

The exertion was starting to manifest itself with her side reminding of the rough collision with the wood of the hull, the head was thick and the ears were ringing, stomach churning.

Without saying a word, Galloway found her way back to the aft deck and plopped down onto the planks, hugging her knees.


	4. VII.

The soothing sound of the sea was fighting through the hum and ruckus of the deck.

Her eyes fluttered open.

The sails flapped and Galloway raised her head to look at the azure sky. The sun was high, it was almost midday.

She reached out to catch hold of the board and pulled herself up, pain and misery spilling in her wooden body. The legs were sore from her yesterday’s deck somersaults, and even sorer from sleeping crouching down. A touch of tender pain in the neck and dull ache in the back clued she was still alive.  

Gates was on the quarterdeck, squinting at the land looming into view.

It was like an arrow – the idea of asking him where Billy was, because she didn’t seem to have caught sight of him on the deck. But then the words dried in her mouth.

 

“It wasn’t a lengthy journey, was it?”

“No,” Gates felt the grief in her voice.

“I’ll vouch for you, kid,” he said after a minute of silence, “Whatever lies ahead.”

Galloway tilted her head, looking at Hal closely. She studied her weary face and then blinked, letting her eyes stay closed for a few seconds.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “And… I’m sorry. For Billy.”

Gates narrowed his eyes, gazing at the land, and nodded shortly.

* * *

 

Hal walked out of Eleanor’s office and headed straight to the girl sitting at a table like a dummy.

“Miss Guthrie arranged for you to stay in the brothel. Unsettling it must seem to you, but…,” seeing the girl wasn’t perturbed in the slightest, he exhaled sadly and carried on, “that might be the safest place for you now. Girls out there are always in the know…”

“I suppose so.”

“Look,” Gates’ heavy hand landed on her shoulder as he turned to look at the door of the tavern, “Idelle is here.”

A young woman standing on the threshold laid her eyes on Galloway and beckoned out.

 

The girl followed Idelle into the brothel. She remained under a prominent impression the wench wasn’t even remotely happy to be foisted a scut monkey to house, for her face was impenetrable and she hadn’t muttered a word to her until they reached her chamber.

 

“Your room isn’t ready yet, you can wait here,” she closed the doors and turned to Galloway.

“You don’t have to…” uttered the girl. “I don’t want to be a nuisance to you…”

“A cup of tea?” Idelle’s eyebrows jumped.

“What…Yes. Please,” the girl nervously adjusted her sleeve.

“Easy,” the prostitute gave Gal a mild smile. “The biggest inconvenience you can cause is stealing my men… But it unlikely that’s what you’re here for.”

“Right,” she breathed out.

“That cunt must give no fuck about you to send you here,” Idelle smirked.

“Who?”

“Guthrie.”

“That’s very much possible, I’d say.”

“This place is going up in smoke, but if you pay the owner what you’ve agreed upon, he won’t have the guts to throw you out. So, tea is it?”

“If it is no bother,” Galloway returned a smile.

“Oh, that brat Hallendale is downstairs, and as much as I want the money, nursing his fetid arse is the last thing I’m itching to do,” Idelle rolled her eyes.

 

 

The tea was splendid. The small talk was loose and facile. The women sat in the room, sweet fragrances spiralling through, thin veils on the windows flittering. Gal kept shifting her gaze from her cup to the window, studying the palms bending in the wind. And Idelle didn’t know how to approach the girl sitting in front of her like a lunatic to tackle the issues that were bothering her. She didn’t know if she should. Galloway’s tacit, tender mournfulness was so inward and well known to the woman of pleasure: she herself had crashed down, and knew how sometimes questions were redundant. Idelle was the quartermaster of the brother, a Billy-Bones-kind of quartermaster, and she was fighting an absurd urge to take Galloway’s hand in hers. She’d heard of the Walrus’ most recent navigation, not in detail, but enough to be slightly worried about the stranger in front of her.

However, Gal made it easier for Idelle when she lowered the cup and lined the tea spoon with the saucer, not letting go of the end of the table-ware.

“Is it peppermint… in the tea?” she spoke up, eyes fixed on the liquid.

“Yes… it is,” Idelle’s mouth quirked up, but curved down in an instant.

The girl nodded, and she saw a tear trace down her cheek.

“Oh, bird,” Idelle couldn’t help it; she was out of her chair in a second.

She locked her hands around Gal’s shoulders, squatting down next to her. But the girl herself soon found her spot on the floor, slipping down. Lips drawn tight over her teeth, she rocked back and forth and then a quiet howl slipped out of her throat. Idelle held her close, trying to quieten the shaking in her body.

Gal shut her eyes tightly as if it would help blow up all the images rushing in front of her, jamming the vision. She had her mouth wide open now, screaming internally, but she wouldn’t let a sound escape her lips. At least intentionally, because Idelle still could hear her breathing and suffocating and gasping for air.

Her hair smelled of salt, sweat and fire. Her hands were grimy, and only the face wasn’t respectively dirty now, when she’d wiped the tears across it with the back of her hand.

“Hey, bird,” Galloway felt Idelle’s hand on her head. “You can tell me.”

Gal tilted her head to look the young woman in the eyes. Tears welled up again when she nodded.

* * *

 

Idelle helped the girl strip off the clothes – Galloway struggled to get her arm out of the sleeve. They let the shirt fall on the floor. Gal then untied the pants and allowed them to slip down. Idelle’s downcast eyes studied the skin covered in minor cuts and abrasions, a couple of big bruises ornamented the girl’s bottom and knees. The elbows were red mixed with black. The palms were sorrowful pink. But the most prominent was the purplish mark down her neck. The wench reached to touch it to feel the warmth of the injury.

Gal got aware of all the sores not sooner than she had lowered herself in a bath filled with hot water. It was almost scalding, but she still immersed in, feeling every inch of her skin scream out with stinging pain.

“I’ll have those washed,” Idelle collected the clothes from the floor. “I’ve got a couple of spare dresses. Would you like a green or a blue one?”

“Green,” Gal turned to the woman; a grateful, almost invisible smile shadowed her lips.

When Galloway was left to her own devices, she closed her eyes.

It’d taken her next to a year to reach the island. After almost a year alone, with no one to turn to, she finally found herself surrounded by people who... somehow had more mercy toward her, a stranger, than some of the crums she’d known her whole life, those who had chosen to turn on her in the moment of distress. At that point it made no matter that all of her new acquaintances could be deceiving her. Finally standing next to someone who recognised her grief was enough. Having spent a year fleeing from one place to another, from one port to another haven, from terror to dismay, she was now stable. At least. A particular place, a particular haven, a particular dismay.

The girl unwrapped the cloth from her wrist and put in on the bath. The cut was clean.

The corner of her mouth etched upward.  
Being thought of … felt satisfying. Being trusted to join a crew on board a ship even more so. She wouldn’t have believed had anyone told her pirates would bring her into the fold and treat her better than half of the civilised men she was acquainted with… Gates, Joshua, Logan… But there was one man who’d confined in her enough to arm her, test her wits and nerve… who did it with good grace. She only hoped she hadn’t deceived his expectations, if any.

The girl put her forworn head on her knees, looking at the bloodied cloth.

“Bless you, Billy,” she whispered breathlessly.

And he would turn away, lowering his eyes. Shaking the gratitude off. Maybe, had she died that day, he would’ve remembered her name. As a first-timer.

But he was dead. Galloway closed her eyes again, swallowing hard.

She felt bitter about William Manderly, but the bitterness was sweet.

* * *

 

“Lovely dress you have here,” Gates patted on a chair next to him as Gal entered his tent.

“Thank you. Idelle gave it to me,” she let out a chuckle, putting her hand on her stomach and breathing in. “Is there…any news?”

“I’ve had a word with Flint,” Hal was telling beads on a necklace, his fingers moved bit by bit.

“How did it go?” she took the seat.

“Don’t be alarmed. When we are to sail for the gold, you will sail on the Walrus: the Ranger crew are too wayward and unpredictable when it comes to women… yeah, women in general, on board or not. That shall be more reasonable. And maybe you’ll even out Randall and that bloody new cook of ours: we are on the verge of mass poisoning. No one wants the crew catching shits when we’ll come up with the Urca. But mark this - after that, Flint and we go our separate ways. Yourself and I, we’ll find a way to make sure you are secure.”

“Don’t want me near Flint, do you?” her brows gathered. “You don’t trust him too.”

“Too?”

“Billy Bones didn’t.”

“Did he tell you that?” Hal straightened in his seat, eyebrows rising.

“No.”

“Yeah, he was unlikely to talk to a girl on the ship – not used to seeing skirts up there. Not a single lady passenger on board on his watch,” Gates smiled at the thought of Billy. Bones was unlikely to initiate a conversation with any woman, with anyone, for that matter, unless necessary. He had only been seen chatting with a cobbler girl a couple of times, but no one really suspected anything super-platonic about it. It wasn’t that he was shy around women, though there was one rather embarrassing episode in Bones’ life after what he opted for steering clear of the brothel. Something that Gates couldn’t recall without chuckling, and something Billy had always been a bit touchy about.

Hal’s heart ached.

“I don’t believe he saw me as a girl,” Galloway said plainly.

Gates glanced at her. She was biting her lower lip watching the bead string in his hands. It must’ve been hard not to recognize a girl in her. Her poise, suave accent, clever eyes and even the tiny line on her forehead hinted she was a lady, lettered, accomplished, endurant. She was just like her father.

She slouched a bit now, as though there was something pressing down on her shoulders, dark circles under her vivid black eyes, and her round cheeks – he could imagine them being full of blood and aglow – were sorry. He’d never seen her before, come to that, he had only heard about her once. When her father had stopped by in Nassau. Tall, wiry, in the full of his health, a shock of dark hair and bushy eyebrows complete with a rich, already greying beard. Eyes lively and shining, thin wrinkles radiating from the corners. Gates knew straight away she was his, though he would imagine her being taller and the snub of her nose was probably something she’d inherited from the mother – for the better, the hawk beak of her father’s wouldn’t really suit her face.

Gates also knew straight away that the man must’ve been gone; otherwise she wouldn’t be in the godforsaken place.

“Did you confront Flint… about it?” her eyes were on Hal’s. “Billy.”

Gates blinked. She had the right to know. She had shown readiness and eagerness to protect the crew, thus keeping her under any delusions whatsoever didn’t seem fair.

“I did.”

“And what did he say?” she asked cautiously.

“Captain Flint has put his crew in danger pursuing his own interests before. And men died. Some of the things he lies about actually promise thrift and prosperity later… Or so he declares. But the means and the price we pay are not to place against whatever he’s striving for. And we don’t know that even a piece of what he’s saying is truthful and fit to live. I know you came here specifically to find the captain, but I’m afraid I have to advise you on the stance of affairs. I’ve been following Flint for years and have seen him sacrifice a lot for the crew, but now… it is getting out of hand. And, interceding on the crew’s behalf, I say: we won’t absolve him for Billy.”

“I don’t believe he… deliberately… Bones just… fell, didn’t he?” she swallowed, her gaze troubled.

“You don’t have to believe it for something to be true. But does it really matter now? It’s the last deal we are having with Flint. I imagine your father advised you to seek that man, but… it might not be the same man anymore.”

Gal lowered her head. Barraging Gates any longer was simply merciless

“You still have Billy’s dagger.”

“I do. Wait, I’ll get it…” the girl reached for the holdall Idelle had given to her. Galloway insisted on paying, though, and the wench didn’t reject the money.

“No… I actually… thought you could possibly have some of his stuff.”

Galloway hesitated for a moment.

“Um… that’s… I don’t think I could.”

“You need a spare shirt and …”

“I can find one... I can buy one: I have some money…There are men on the crew who…who might need it more than… me,” she was stammering a bit, and Gates gave her a warm smile.

“Just take it. He was like a son to me. And now you are my daughter, so… it just suits the equation.”

He stood up, breathing hard, and drew a stack of Billy’s belongings from his chest.

“You may wash it or … whatever…” he made an inexplicable gesture with his hand, sitting down again.

Galloway looked down on the items now resting on her lap.

“These are his oldest ones,” Gates pointed at the few amulets on top of the pile. “Must’ve meant a lot to him… took them off before a huge battle a couple of months ago. Was afraid to lose them, I guess.”

She nodded understandingly. Her fingers caressed the rough fabric of Billy’s shirt. Right beneath it hid an old copy of Bacon’s _New Atlantis_ and a _Gargantua and Pantagruel_ penned by Rabelais.

“Jesus, is that in French?” she quickly opened the book to ascertain. Gates saw some innate suavity in her, and reckoned it was what had worked like a charm on his protégé.

“You liked him, didn’t you?” his smile was sad.

“He’s kind.”

“Yeah, he was.”

“He actually talked to me,” she said proudly, a bright smile lighting her face.

“I know. I noticed.”

She flicked through the pages of what would be considered a masterpiece for years and centuries to come. Gates watched her, hoping tears wouldn’t well from his smarting eyes.

* * *

 

“Here,” Idelle pushed the door open, letting Gal in a tiny room hid in a labyrinth of the brothel. “It’s too small for, you know, making love, so… it won’t hurt anybody. I put a mattress down there, didn’t know whether you needed one: I’ve been told you won’t be staying here long.”

“I… to be honest, I don’t have the slightest idea.”

“I see… It’s all right,” Idelle pursed her lips, looking around. “Come down if you need anything.”

“I will… Thank you.”

The wench nodded, leaving.

Galloway stood still, examining the tiny chamber she could now proudly call her crib.

There was a small square window and a chair. And that was pretty much it.

Gal emptied her bag onto the mattress and set to sort the things out. One of Billy’s shirts didn’t smell of him, and thus she knew he had had it washed. She took off Idelle’s dress and threw the shirt on. It was a bit too big, but would work if she managed to tuck it in her trousers. The sleeves were rolled right below her elbows, though the cleavage seemed to be revealing – that was to be fixed with a couple of stitches. Galloway got into her breeches and tied it up.

She folded Billy’s clothes and put them onto the chair, pressing them down with the books and some of his trinkets. The blue coat he had had split open at the seams and she twitched at the threads to test the solidity of the wretched garment. She breathed in deeply and plopped down on the mattress to reach for the dagger.

With a swift motion she ripped open the stomacher of her dress and retrieved some coins.

_Father, if you ever meet Billy Bones there… Or it must be William Manderly, know he is a good man._

Galloway hid her tattered clothing under the mattress and gathered Idelle’s dress.

Dropping the coins into her pocket, she tucked her braided hair under the scarf and went down, closing the door. 

* * *

 

“I knew you weren’t a crew,” voice came from a man to her right as she sat at a table downstairs with a bowl of stew in front of her.

“Excuse me?” she turned to consider the pirate who’d helped the now-one-legged-cook cheat dead fate.

“‘Ve heard on the beach that Flint took a girl on board…”

“Right?”

“Beg you a pardon, it might not be seemly of me to approach you so frankly… But it just doesn’t strike me as being completely true.”

“And what do you reckon I am?”  

“Well, in the given circumstances, the range of choices is rather tight…”

“It is erroneous of you to assume I’m a prostitute,” she raised her eyebrows and smiled, as though she was being apologetic.

“Well, you might not be now, but…”

“That is not in the planning stage either.”

“I’m convinced it never is a calculated move.”

“Who… are you?” she refrained from decorating her speech. “And how exactly can I help you?”

“My name’s John.  And I believe we can frame a mutually beneficial rapport.”

“Is that so?” she laughed, showing her teeth. His eyes wandered down her face and lingered on her shirt.

“Isn’t it a bit oversized?”

“It is.”

Silver then noticed the cut on her hand. And the mark on her neck. And all the other slighter injuries that were open to the eye. Meanwhile, Galloway, relieved he had stopped bothering her, went back to eating. And John, having understood that the girl indeed had been on the Walrus that night and was most definitely going to join them when they sailed for the gold, was now elaborating an alternative strategy.

“Thinking hard, aren’t you?” she was picking at the vegetables in her bowl.

It turned out Gates was committed to her late father beyond measure, so he confided in her, revealing the lowdown of the Urca concernment. Thus, she was heavily protected from Silver’s sly-arsedness.

She snapped him out of his thoughts. John blinked a couple of times.

He was about to shoot back and already opened his mouth, when one of the prostitutes touched Gal’s shoulder and beckoned to the entrance.

The girl thanked her and, leaving her food on the table, stood up and went off.

Silver saw her approach Gates waiting outside.

 

John Silver was an opportunist. And he recognised an opportunity when he saw one.

* * *

 

Flint poured some more rum into his glass.

_“You and I have a problem, because Billy wasn't expendable to me. And I will not let the girl be used at your whim and fall another victim for a sacrifice…”_

 

_“I'm tired of the energy it takes to believe you._ _To believe in you. Faulkner only believed in you because he wasn’t here to see what you are. Had he known he wouldn’t have scooted her here…”_

 

_“When it's done, you and I will quietly go our separate ways. And I will take Galloway. And I'll thank you not to protest.”_

 

The captain chugged his drink down.

If Gates impeachment wasn’t jarring enough, his mentioning Mr Faulkner took its toll.  
The last friend Flint had in the Old World. Now dead.

Had sent his only daughter under the aegis of James. As the last resort. _What kind of deliverance is that?_

How much did she really know about him? Did she know who he was, who he had been?

What had her father told her? Did she really grasp what she was sailing into?

Did it really matter?  
  
_“There is no joy here. There is no love here.”_

 

James put his hand onto his forehead. _Perspective._

 

_“The door is open. I've opened it for you. And it requires no war and no blood and no sacrifice.”_

 

His other fist clenched. The girl had already fallen a victim to the thing they had started. The person who had nothing to do with it. The hairs on his forearms reared up.

 

_“This path you're on it doesn't lead where you think it does.”_

It was palsy. _She_ had killed a person he loved, forced his exile, ruined it all, murdered his friend and flumped his daughter’s life like a sack of carious potatoes. _The Empire._

 

Whether the path did lead anywhere, whether it didn’t, James Flint wasn’t even contemplating budging.


	5. VIII.

_If you see a stray dog scurrying around_ , her father once said _, never show fear_.

The dogs could feel it.

Even though Galloway didn’t have a heart to dub the pirate now approaching her _a dog_ , she resorted to her father’s strategy all the same. Expose no weakness.

She stood on the deck, rubbing the hilt of Billy’s dagger with her nail, trying to scrub off a blackened line that turned out to be a dent. From another knife, possibly, that had breached his defenses. But Gal didn’t get a chance to consider and count the odds of a person who’d had a blade in the nearest vicinity of his skin more times than she had tripped over her own doorstep to die overboard. There was someone lurking in her side vision and she moved her chin an inch, forcing her eyes away from the dagger. A tall, dark-haired pirate was examining her intently. He wasn’t the first. Some of the crew tried to browbeat the girl, staring at her as if she was a pig on a spit. Father always said that those who tried the hardest to intimidate, yelled the loudest and had the cockiest attitude were just long streaks of piss. Those who really could do the damage knew it well enough to need no ostentation and walked the walk straight away, no preamble.

She’d seen the Asian warrior on the Andromache. He minced people with a face calmer than ditch water, his movements finely honed, light as air, sleek and deathly with no hope of return.  Maybe her father words didn’t apply to that particular specimen, and he had malice in mind, well-concealed and dark, but it wasn’t that she could afford running away in terror. She had nowhere to run, in all the conceivable senses of the word. Gathering enough spirits to cross the Atlantic once again, she faced the man who bore the name of Joji, or so she believed.

He put out his hand, steady. The girl eyed him head-to-toe, brows drawn down, and he crooked his finger at the dagger, a veiled smile.

He refused the hilt when she offered it and took Galloway by the wrist, and now even the smile stood idle against the growing doubt there was no ill will. But Joji simply fastened her grip on the handle, his fingers guiding hers, and brought the blade to his own neck, the way she had done it to the pirate from the Andomache. The girl got cold. She tried to pull her hand down, afraid she could slit his throat or that it all was done with the purpose of setting her up… Joji wasn’t afraid a fraction, for his rock solid clench locked her hand in one position and he administered the situation entirely, utterly positive her arm wouldn’t move an inch without him knowing. He shook his head. Then his deft and tactful fingers moved her palm over, changing the grip, and he pressed the flat of the blade to his neck again, but nodding this time.

The handle sat just right and she somehow felt certain now she had much more potential to do harm.

Galloway ripped out a strained chuckle, meeting Joji’s eyes, and he cocked his eyebrow.

 

The Walrus was in open waters, no land peeking at the horizon. The black flag waiting eagerly to flaunt.

At first it felt she’d been left to the wolves, but soon enough Galloway realised all the problems she was to deal with converged to only two.

The challenges consisted of her almost complete lack of knowledge of the pirate ‘glossology’ and her being a woman. The latter was exceedingly harder to resolve. A single sail with Billy and Gates by her side spoilt her a bit too much she almost forgot how to see to it herself that no one encroached upon her right to relatively peaceful existence. Now she had to revert to the tactics of both subduing her temper and making sure no one ventured to scant her. ‘What you reap is what you sow’ rhetoric was separate from the given circumstances, for she knew her harvest would be barely edible, if it ever saw the light, had she chosen to show how little patience she had for impudence and sheer stupidity - she never considered herself too smart, but there were boundaries: a Spanish sailor pouring water into her berth when she had been sailing to Havana months ago was both feet beyond those. That she had swallowed, for her main objective still was reaching Nassau in one piece. But the difference between the Spanish sailors and the pirates of the Walrus was drastic and it had nothing to do with their appurtenance – it only mattered what Flint’s crew made of her since they were the terminus ed quem, and being treated as an abject guinea pig for the rest of her life – alas, she knew it wouldn’t be too long – she wished not all that much. However, almost immediately Galloway managed to wriggle into the favour of Randall: she peeled significantly better than Silver, and meandered far less; though he didn’t particularly like it when she would intervene and take out all the hairs he would so artistically plant into the food of his least liked members of the crew. And that was the exact same reason why some pirates were more than just indifferent to her. There were still a couple of presumptuous fucks (quoting Randall there) who showed dire exacerbation to her mere presence on the ship, thought she was confined to the galley – Flint’s recipe to keep one (or two) quiet and busy and almost always out of sight. That was why Randall, as wise as mad, told her that if the bastards had time to be fretted at her, they were definitely loitering. The stoop also faded down when the crew saw Joji provide the girl with the “Stabbing, slashing and slicing” trainings. The man still showed neither inclination for talking nor real heat, embracing her blunders and lapses with due philosophical moderation.

 

And as for the former challenge – there was Logan to help her make light of the terms.

“… and, well, the tiller is…” he scratched the nest on his head.

“That one I know,” she nodded, setting her plate on a table.

“Then…” Logan lowered himself on the bench next to her.

“Ay, mate, ye’re bunglin',” Muldoon. He’d been tailing her for a couple of days already, still unclear why and what for. Malingering, most likely. “"aving that knowledge won’t make 'er wise…”

“What will?”

“We, pirates - gentlemen o' fortune, 'ave a strong code o' behaviour…” Muldoon pretended not to notice Logan’s eyes roll into his skull.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Gal mashed a potato with her fork.

“… an' ye can find yourself a subject o' chastise if ye don’t swear.”

“It is always a relish fo' an obtuse moron like you to teach a saintly some Anglo-Saxon,” said Joshua from a table nearby.

“Stuff yerself, doaty slink.”

Joshua eyed the brother for a couple of seconds and then simply turned away.

“See?” Muldoon shuffled on his seat. “That’s 'ow it’s done.”

“An uncanny skill,” Galloway cocked an eyebrow, paying no regard.

The girl’s speech was rather uncluttered, was it for her general distress or for the fact she held back a portion of what was roaming her mind - she didn’t know herself.

“I wouldn’t say it’s a foremost task, but you might actually want to learn a phrase or two to bung idiots like this one,” Logan shrugged, pushing his food around the plate. “Fuck off, Muldoon.”

“Ye should practice yer quip backs,” the bald pirate believed he had indulged them enough for the day and took his leave.

“But, in all se'iousness, swearing is mandatory,” Joshua leaned over to whisper.

“It’s our watchword,” added the tousled one.  

“All fucking right?” Galloway raised her eyes, shifting the glance between the two pirates in hopes they would leave her to her food.

“That was… below average,” Logan pouted, canting his head and nodding.

* * *

 

Peace came at night that allowed her on the main deck, reasonably unbothered and with her hair loose. But she was stripped off even of that when the Walrus ran into a storm.

Galloway, uneager to join the men in their drinking spree, had to climb into her hammock,  tucking her feet under, for Mr. O’Brien, drunk into abyss, crawled across the deck floor, using people’s feet as a guide because he truly needed to. The crew horsed around, hopping down faster than usual and safe – some because of the storm, some feared the upcoming clash.

“Hope sooner or later he’ll grow used to it,” Silver waddled to the girl, lips pursed in a smile. Randall was withering the man, the peg leg on his lap.

Galloway blinked up at him.

“So… I’m just wondering… how many men here know you’re not Gates’ daughter,” John leaned in, whispering in her ear.

“And how many of them know you have the page of Flint’s log eternalized in your head?” her hot breath caressed his cheek.

They looked at each other for a minute.

“How do you know?” Silver sank into her berth, making her slide over a bit.

“Overheard your quarrel with Randall. You?”

“Overheard you and Flint…”

They both knew the better term for John would’ve been ‘eavesdropped’, but for the sake of propriety…

“Well…” Silver’s lips got stiff.

“Don’t sell yourself short.”

“Beg you a pardon?”

“Am I genuinely offended you chose to blackmail me, the only person on this vessel who is not shiting all over you…” a soft smile graced her lips.

“That’s not how I would put it…”

“Pressing down the weakest, but somehow valuable? Here’s where you miscalculated – the captain cares not for me, for that matter,” she knew he clearly did not, for he hadn’t favoured her with a word in the last couple of days, and had only looked at her twice.

“Well, if you are to fight, punch first, they say…”

“Are we to fight?” she asked lightly.

With all Randall’s regard she had stolen from him (though one might argue he’d not once had it), Silver believed there were two ways for them to coexist on the ship. And for some reason he considered she wasn’t one to be coaxed into friendliness. She proved him wrong. _A new strategy then._

“I’m new here, so are you. You have a secret, I have one. We can both agree keeping our lips sealed serves the both if us…” John watched her nod in agreement with his words.

“Deal.”

“I know we had a rough start, but…”

“Oh, you want to cotton now?” she leaned back, brows bobbing up to complete her prim, but frolic expression. 

“Serves the both of us.”

She chuckled at him, dimples on her cheeks.

“You are cunning.”

“And… is it good or is it bad?”

“I bet both,” she beckoned, looking straight. “Is that all? I start to doubt this interaction is worth my favourite time of the day…” the girl fanned herself with the book she was holding. 

“I have one more proposition.”

“You are quite efficient with propositions, aren’t you?”

“Blame me,” he smiled. “So…”

But Galloway wasn’t destined to ever learn what the proposition was.

“Gates is coming over!”  
“You have to excuse me,” John tumbled out of the hammock, limbs tangling in the fabric.

“Good luck,” Galloway shrugged her shoulders, quirking her lip.

A skulk, Gates’d told her, he was.

A thief, according to Randall.

One thing was crystal clear: he was entirely good at nurturing fitting outcomes, and she wasn’t nearly as insinuating as he was. A companion like that was a bounty, a bounty to be handle with caution.

* * *

 

Silver was out in the cold. With the Urca not present in the requested location. And as much as he molested her addling her brain, she felt sorry. She fingered the trigger of the pistol Joji had given her.

He’d approached the girl gazing at Joshua putting in his teeth before the battle, and stretched it forth to her. Galloway took the pistol, worrying her eyebrows, “Am I that bad?”

Joji didn’t oblige her with an answer, not that she did really expect it.

“Don’t get too brave”, Joshua shook up his legs and stretched his arms. He also said she would have no chance boarding the other ship – they had no Bones to rescue her. But seeing her features fade into bitter blankness, he hastened to recover, “Hope you take unerring aim.”

 

For a whole minute the girl was completely sure what was going to follow. Flint would die, Sliver… even sooner, Gates and herself…

“Sails! To the south!”

“Man-of-war! She's a man-of-war!”

Galloway closed her eyes. Contingency. 

The only thing certain now – the executions were to be postponed. And, well, Randall had to be informed the boarding would take place: she was sure he’d detached the peg leg in the transport of joy.

“Never fear, kid,” Gates patted her on the shoulder on his way to the captain’s cabin. “It’s going to be all right.”

Galloway smiled after him. They’d spent half of the night talking and the words “It’s gonna be alright” were pronounced one too many times. But even his lively, brown eyes, just like her father’s, and his amiable, reassuring smile couldn’t persuade her the coast would be clear anytime soon.

The girl was unsuspicious of how right she was. She never saw him emerge from the quarters alive.

* * *

 

When she was back up on the main deck, moods rather good – she’d been trusted with a pistol, - all eyes were on her. She heard the ship creak, the ropes hiss against the wood, the sails pop, punched by the wind. But the hands and feet of the crew were working mechanically as the men stared at her.

Galloway frowned, looking at the pirates seeming unnaturally perturbed. Neither of them uttered a word, and the terror was growing inside her chest. She breathed out.

“It’s Gates,” Dufresne’s voice was a bullet in the haze, and she turned her head to him. It took her a second to grasp what he was saying.

She breathed in, her chest rising, nostrils flaring.

The blood was pounding in her temple and all the sounds blurred into one slough. She parted her lips, eyeing the crew in hope anybody would offer a coherent answer to the unvoiced question.

Galloway was getting dizzy as her eyes travelled from one pirate to another. Joshua sat on the deck with his head on his palms. Joji was shaking his head. Logan looked her into the eyes. Muldoon protruded his lower jaw, breathing out. She recognised the accountable as soon as she saw him. Flint.

All the muscles in her face relaxed in a second, the realization whacking her in the guts. She let out a sigh. The pistol hit the deck.

The pirates stepped back, clearing the way to the cabin for her. She moved haltingly at first, but her feet were gaining pace with every step.

She felt a pair of arms squeeze her right before she’d reached the door, but she got away from Silver’s grip, pushing him aside.

_No, no, no, no, no. No._

Silver followed the girl in, not knowing what for. He saw her fall to her knees, cupping Gates’ face. She rushed her hands across his chest, smoothing over his vest and shirt, whispering and mumbling something.  And then she turned to John. Galloway looked at him with her eyes big and watery, as if he was capable of resurrecting people. She wanted him to bring Gates back to life: that was the message. But John stood still, afraid to come up to her.

 

_“I think we should bring him inside”, says the doctor, getting up to his feet. She nods._

_They pick him up. His arms fall lifeless._

_“Miss, do you need any help?”_

 

“Gal?” John stepped forward.

She didn’t have a chance to answer.

“All crews, fire!”

Braced for the deafening sounds of the cannons, she shut her eyes tight.

But the deck was silent.

 

She slid her hand into Hal’s, turning to him again. The bang of the door announced John’s leaving. 

Gates’ eyes, just like her father’s, were sightless. Lifeless.

“Don’t. Please, don’t.”

Galloway threw her head back, losing her own sight to tears for a spell.

Her fingers kept squeezing his, not cold yet.

 

_“Miss, how are you feeling?”_

_She lifts her heavy eyes on the doctor. Deigning this with an answer? She is lightheaded and silent, nauseous and willing to die. Lament and grief come in many forms. Yipping and whining never was his one. With all the strength she has left, she forces the pain back inside. The tears never come out._

 

There was no strength left in her. No lament, no grief, but her stomach contracted and her lower lip trembled.

Another trickle of bullets.

_Stop, stop, stop. Stop it._

As it was with her grandmother, her father, Billy... many other obscure times – the prayers worked not. They never did and never would. God didn’t exist and it left one such a wide discretion, but it was not liberating in the slightest.

 

What was it in rendering honours, love, respect – anything - to a corpse?

He couldn’t hear her, like her father, he wasn’t there with her, like her father. _Dead, that what he is._

 

_At least he is with Billy now._

* * *

 

 

That time her presence on the deck was unnoticed for all the attention was drawn elsewhere. 

"Raise the sails. We're going home."

Blindly, without thinking she was walking to the pistol she had dropped. It sat heavily against her hip when she tucked it into the waistband.

Out of the corner of her eye Gal saw Silver.

“Oh, shite,” she whispered when John lit the fuse.

No turning back.

 

The frustration intensified.

A fraction of relieve.

“How many guns does a Man o’ war have?”

“Depends,” answered the coxswain.

“On what?” her last question hung in the air as she cast her gaze at the warship coming about.

 

 _Death is never dignified. Life can be, but death is ugly and contorting_.

 

She’d prayed for it more times that she would ever admit, beseeching the magnanimous for the release, but it was never delivered.

The fucking warship provided her with the time to count the guns.

The sight of the portholes opening was breath-taking and thrilling and almost exciting. Glorious.

It would mangle them all, but she was anxious it could not be the day, her day.

 

_“I’ll arrange the funeral”, someone says, but she can’t tell who. The room is cramped, full of people. She sits still on a chair, her eyes fixed on a window. “You shouldn’t worry about it.”_

_She nods._

 

When the Man o’ war fired for the first time, Galloway didn’t even put up a fight and let her body fall free. The sensations that were hardly missed: the bones crunching against the timber, the uncertainty she would feel the deck and not the taut surface of water, the bellows of the ship and splintering wood, the outcries of men, profanities, the screech of the cannon spewing fire, and that ropy feeling life would not end so easily.

 

Billy wasn’t there, Gates wasn’t there, she had already seen Logan jump overboard, Joshua was too far to care, hide nor hair of Joji, and even if Muldoon tried to pick her up, he’d have failed drastically. She didn’t intend to get up and knew she was safe to stay that way till the universe took pity on her. It was gonna hurt.

 

A grunt rasped to her left. She turned to see blood.

The girl was on her feet, shoving a corpse off a pirate's body.  

“Don’t sweat it, kid. We’re all dead.”

“I know,” she panted, straining every muscle to help the man up. “I know.”

He could stand, surprisingly.

Galloway lifted her head to have a look at the Man o’ war, still tugging the crew to the board. With her eyes bold with horror she traced the pathway of a cannonball whistling in the direction of the Walrus.

 

He smiled at her as she was nudging him overboard. When she saw his head emerge on the surface of the water, she climbed onto the gunwale and stepped forward. 


	6. IX.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good whatever time of day applies :)  
> I do apologise for the delay - I'm fighting against a stomach bug, so the editing takes (way) longer.  
> Thanks a bundle for the kudos btw (:

The needle broke the edge of the canvas with a pop, then another edge and another pop, the whish of the thread against the thick fabric. Pop. Pop. Whish. Pop. Pop…

Galloway held the cloth up, stitching the bag dexterously, careful not to catch Gates’ body with the needle.

The turmoil of the crew trying to assemble a semblance of barracks with the flotsam was sonorous, more resonant than the usual background workwalking that blurred into barely tangible vapour.

Maybe it was a mistake _. A colossal one._

Galloway raised her eyes at the Walrus. More of a whale beached.

The mouth felt dry and tasted like she’d swallowed a dead fish. The mind was swirling with the transparent injustice. The sun was up and bright and shining and irritating every inch of her. Randall sat next to her with a piece of wood in his hands, thinning out in failing attempts to carve a bird.

She shouldn’t have come there ever. She should’ve… _There was no choice, you are accountable to him._

But she did acquit herself of his bidding. She was there, with the notoriously mighty Captain Flint, but the incessant fusillade never ceased. _What kind of deliverance was that in the first place, father?_ A lost battle didn’t suggest a lost war, but she never wanted a war. And all the battles were losing ones, the vessel was in shambles, all the remaining hope - belayed, Gates was dead and _that man_ did not give a single damn about anything but the thrice cursed gold… Galloway closed her eyes and breathed in, deeply and thoroughly, trying to tame the doubt that was suffusing her. She’d never called her father’s judgement into question before, not like that.

 

They buried him. It was nothing like the funeral of her father. No soil involved. But just the same – she retained nothing almost, but the twinge overbearing consciousness and outlandish void.

When it was over and the crew got back to their work, she spent a good half an hour purging her stomach, till her ribs hurt and tears streamed down her face uncontrollably, forced away by the pain of the abdominal contractions.

 

The sun was galling. The whole New World was laughing at her for coming there, the derisive weather serving as an ambassador in that negotiation. Randall resumed torturing the wood and she rested near, her hands in her hair melting. There was nothing for her to do, she’d asked, she had nothing to do and she wanted to do nothing. She was alone. For sure, every single person within a mile of her would undoubtedly understand her grief had she placed enough faith in them to tell what kind of shite she’d been wading through in the concrete, but it wasn’t worth unravelling herself and jeopardizing Gates’ efforts. It wasn’t worth it because her only way to ever come to be a part of the communion was to be a part of something, _someone_ , who was already in. And she had a hunch, a minuscule one, that the pirate junction would give no quarter to someone tucking in by means of a rank lie. Though _some people_ managed to only get a slap on the wrist for deeds much more egregious than hers.

 

_Whom do I check with that the standard of my anguish is an argument satisfactory enough to condone my thirst for expiry and…?_

 

She cut the line of thought suddenly, realising that her desire to evaporate was to be put aside and _maybe, just maybe,_ she had to, out of reverence to her father and Gates, stop yelping like a tattered dog and do something. _Say, learn to operate a pistol._

She weighed it in her hand, recoiling at the sight of her own fingers holding it. It was ugly, and even though she’d always thought there was no pound of grace or fineness in her of any kind, it just felt out to be holding a gun.

“Galloway.”

“Yes, Randall?”

“You’ll want to see this.”

The point of his knife directed her gaze to the slight mount to her right.

* * *

 

 

As she climbed next to Dufresne, he glowered at her. Galloway strategically ignored the regard and raised the spyglass offered by Mr Decker.  

The image was shaky at first, only the sand and little patches of green. She didn’t know what she was supposed to be looking at, so she let the glass flow aimlessly across the pale ochre soil until it specked. _Gold_. The thin river of what could only be the _pesos de ocho_ led to a well – a chest overflowing with the precious metal. Something dark, a gigantic ant, crawled into the picture and picked a couple of coins on the go and threw them carelessly into a pile. _Spanish_. Galloway raised the spyglass to see the Urca battered by the storm and the cannons like a moth eaten fur. Well, that was an interesting twist of the plot.

To say the view didn’t impress her would not be truthful. She did lack interest in the gold, but the scenery was mesmerising nevertheless.

“They wrecked last night?” she threw a glance at the coxswain, neither moving the head nor taking the glass away from her face. 

“Right,” Decker bit his bottom lip.

“And the guardacosta?”

“A little to the right.”

The Man o’ war did look more… presentable than her accomplice.

“It’s not a guardacosta,” a voice too poisonous to be Decker’s.

“All right,” the glass clanked as she set it down against her palm. Flint wouldn’t let it slip away, beyond the shadow of the doubt. She knew he was lying behind her, yards away, chances were still unconscious and bleeding.

 

_“If you feel anything – anything - slip out of control, even a most minuscule thing, you know what to do, right, petal?”_

_“Don’t say it like that.”_

_“I’ve told you about Captain Flint…”_

_“Why would you speak so as if I’d have to act alone, father?”_

_“Love, I just…”_

 

_I just want to be sure you will be safe._

_How safe is that?_

Gates had been the quartermaster before Bones, quartermasters enjoyed immense respect and trust of the crew and the captain was traditionally supposed to reckon with them. There must’ve been regard between Gates and Flint, otherwise… _It says nothing, he doesn’t care for you._

In the distant part of mind she realised what happened in the captain’s cabin the previous night. She just didn’t want to accept it and for the first time in her life blamed the pungency of her wit. Ignorance was bliss. If only she could be the way half of the crew were before the Urca battle – too hangover to remember their own names, let alone keep in mind what the concept of death was holding… A fraction of them had died painlessly that day.

 

“A lady…” a hiss, a blow of the wind sucking her out of the thought.

“Beg you a pardon?” her chin tilted as she raised her eyes at Dufresne, still a bit lethargic.

“Billy said you were a lady in distress, but you are one doing damage.”

“I beg you a pardon?” Galloway had to repeat, for it seemed her brain had stopped functioning.

“Don’t. A woman on board is bad luck. Never believed it, but you somehow prove it.”

Gal almost choked on a chuckle. _Isn’t he a_ refined _one? Literate, ostensibly smart, the glasses and the squeamishness to a fight._

“First Morley, then Billy, now Gates and this.”

The perky accusations escalated too quickly for her to register and Galloway just stared at Dufresne as if he was reciting a verse of The Divine Comedy to her, but in a language she’d never heard before. However, she somehow deciphered it was the Alighieri’s work.

“Didn’t think you were superstitious,” she managed to school her voice into neutrality.

“I wasn’t. But you… Besotted them. There’s no other explanation…”

“Do you indicate you truly believe I am accountable for what’s happened?”

The accountant didn’t answer. _Can it be remedied already?_

“Would you be intelligible to explain yourself?” Dufresne’s attitude – melodramatic boarding sheer madness – was working her reeling nerves.

“You appear on the beach and in short order a crew dies and the careening goes sour…”

“That’s ludicrous…”

“You board the ship – we’re facing the Scarborough and Billy falls overboard…”

Galloway flicked another shocked glance at the man. She knew where it was heading.

“…and now you kill Gates.”

“Are you a moron of some kind?” she knew she shouldn’t have engaged into the conversation, but much to her own frustration she felt her arse ablaze. With the same result he could be accusing anyone sneaking a banana on the ship. She had tried to stay civil, but that spiteful mantis was putting her out of the temper beyond measure.

“Had he known where you’d lead him in, he’d have never lied to the crew about you…”

“You didn’t strike me as skimpy enough to reckon it is my mere presence that conjures the adversities you keep facing.”

Well, if that wasn’t an overstatement, she wouldn’t know what was.

“I wouldn’t take the liberty to say that if I were you,” Dufresne piped up again. “I’ll be blatant – they’ll get you for sport once they learn.”

 _Oh, you_. ‘Sissy’, said ever-so-helpful Logan in her head.

“Pray, tell me, how long have you been on this vessel?”

“Almost two years,” there was pride in his tone, vanity even.

“Any major misfortunes during that time?”

“No,” a slant.

“Then bad luck has nothing to do with females.”

That felt like a crisp swat for a person believing ‘ _a girl’_ was the superior insult.

 

Her heart was pounding in her chest in a strong, thrumming tempo – the drum of discontent and rage. Deep inside she knew taking offence was foolish – there was never a reason to waste one’s nerves on others’ stupidity. She already walked away, leaving Dufresne get poisoned on his own spit. It was true; the pirates could get her for sport, and even without adding that she didn’t have any decent chances of survival.

In any case, she knew even if she was to die with her skin dry, looking like a raisin and with her age going into triple digits – well into the next century – she would never live to see the day when that thing between her legs would stop causing women trouble. _Can it be remedied already – the arrogance of men who paint women as weak when they want it, wicked when it suits them, useless when they need it and doubtlessly strong when it comes to fetching water from the well? Tell me I’m wicked because I plotted a mutiny and thus caused you trouble and I will accept it. Don’t tell me I’m wicked because I am a woman and thus a witch._

_Your lot lives on an island run by a woman and you still find guts to question our mental capacity?_

She’d never felt more a woman than there, then, with the closest skirt to her in St. Augustine, smelling distinctly like a man to the extent one wouldn’t tell her from a pirate by odour. _Charming._  She’d never felt less a woman.

 

_Billy said you were …_

Flint moved.

 

It was hard to tell where actuality stopped and life’s derision began, but soon enough Flint, accompanied by his loyal-beyond-measure friendliest friend, went to steal the fucking warship.

* * *

 

Galloway stood up, shaking the sand off her bottom. Vincent sneakily peeped at her running her hands swiftly on the back of her trousers. She was still gravitating towards either Randall or Joji – no other company seemed interesting after being so openly and personally victimised by the new leader.  Galloway knew Decker’d decided to keep the new information to himself. Otherwise she’d not be breathing. Or she would be, but regretfully. There’d be no mooch waiting for her had the coxswain told the crew the truth. There’d be an uglier punishment.

Vincent looked at her as she fixed the scarf on her head, tucking in an unruly lock, and went off. He saw her head for the palms. She went to ease nature.

Her frame delved deeper into the green until it disappeared.

He didn’t follow her right away - decided to wait, delay and give her a head start. She had to finish her business first, in any event.

* * *

 

Logan forced a boat across the sand until it got picked up by the amiable waves of the sea. There was no signal from the warship, but a well-time assault never hurt anybody. With a finger up his nose he turned round to launch another boat, but stopped in tracks. A short outcry quickly went muffled. Some of the brothers shifted, looking around.

“The fuck?”

“Who the fuck is yelling?” De Groot spun around, the curls jumping.

The crew failed to locate the source of the sound in question until… Logan’s jaw dropped when he saw Vincent drag the girl across the sand. He held her by the collar of the shirt and straddled, pulling her along with sharp tugs.

Galloway had already given up on the attempts to grab the man by the legs and now only tried to avoid slipping out of the untucked shirt. With one last jerk he let go of the fabric and the girl felt her upper body douse into the sand and she immediately breathed in the dusty substance.

“You … bastard.”

She assumed it was Joshua who rushed to them first and knocked Vincent down, for those were his arms that promptly grabbed her by the waist. He balanced the girl back on her feet and stood in front of her, shielding her from anyone who would venture to have a fling.

“Are you out of your mind?” Gal couldn’t know whether Dufresne spoke to her or Vincent, but she felt it in her guts it was her to get the beating.

Vincent struggled to stand up, and before Logan had tried to kick the attempt out of him, the man raised his bloody palm, displaying it to the crew and shouting, “Look what she’s done.”

“Quiet, if you please,” De Groot hissed at him.

“Do ye even know what happens when ye assault a member of the crew?” his hand was one maroon mess and he would shove it into the men’s faces had he had the chance.

“Do you?” she spat, her dark eyes flaring. Joshua put his arm out in front of her fearing she’d dash to get the revenge on the git, but she barely moved.

“Ye ain’t a part of the crew…”

“Oh, shut up,” De Groot breathed out, annoyed. “She fucking feeds you and she’s the one who stitched the crotch of your trousers yesterday…”

Galloway swallowed. Her eyes went to check what portion of the men were there on her side, but Joji obstructed the view. He took her bloodied hands – the grains of sand mingling into the smears - into his own to examine and the girl had to shake his concern off. The blood wasn’t hers.

 

“Beg forgiveness fer the interruption, but it’s time,” Muldoon was short of breath, pointing at the Man o’ war.

The pirates were turning away from the scene with aversion – Vincent was still down and Galloway looked like a plucked chicken - and only God knew whom they felt the sticky revolt to: the man or the girl. Seeing the crew hurry to the boats to board the warship, she lifted her eyes at Joji, “The dagger.”

 

On his way to a boat, Vincent received a couple of courtesies from Randall.

* * *

 

_And then I think you intend to return to that beach, armed to the teeth, and seize every last ounce of gold off of it. And I think you're going to need my help to do it. Tell me I'm wrong._

_Tell me I'm wrong._

_Tell me I'm wrong._

 

It was her step that invited his attention. She slowly walked to the board, flicking her fingers through the hair that softly unsnarled from the braid.

“Seventeen against fifteen. Thirty-two men voted. You didn’t,” James said loud enough for his voice to reach her hearing, but she didn’t react at first.

“ _Men_ is the key word,” Galloway leaned over the gunwale and stared at the yellowish moon.

 _Did he just condescend to me?_ _  
_ “Is Randall too occupied with Betsy to advocate for your rights?” said Silver and James felt his insides cringe.

“Can assert my own rights myself,” the way she turned to them. It was her father shining through the suave features of her face. Those were his eyes flaming James out. “I’m not a crew, that’s it.”

“Have they voted you out?”

“Never voted me in,” she arched an eyebrow. “But they want me not on the ship once we’re in Nassau, one way or another.”

“Small wonder, after what you’ve…”

A blaze in her dark eyes snapped Silver up.

“What I’ve done? All I’ve done was show the man I wasn’t interested in his company by means – the only means – perceptible to the said individual,” she looked elsewhere as she spoke – completely calm. “If morons, such as yourself, still don’t grasp that a woman might live for something other than an interaction of the sort with a man, I will make it clear. Whatever it will cost me.”

“Did they vote to have him out?” John seemed to be trying to recover, but wrecked miserably when she rolled her eyes back at him.

James followed their conversation silently.

 

When Galloway reckoned the amount of words exchanged between them was sufficient – the both of them had had a rather rocky day behind – she retreated to the quarterdeck.

 

She ran her finger along the dent on the dagger. There was still some dried blood right under the hilt she hadn’t wiped.

 

_“Oh, stop it, will you? It’s alright,” he breathes onto her ear. “Don’t,” he says as she tries to remove his hands from her waist. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she feels his slippery lips on her cheek. The kiss is wet and hideous._

She drew out a piece of a cloth a scrubbed the blade. _No use when it’s dry._

De Groot ran up the stairs, granting her a disappointed glance. _Do you blame me?_

 

_“Shut up,” he grabs her face, forcing her to look at him._

 

Galloway swallowed.

How would she go about surviving now?

Only then she realised Gates wasn’t there anymore. He wasn’t there to help her. He had died. And if she hadn’t been thinking about the way his death would affect her when she’d found him lying on the floor of Flint’s cabin, and not when they’d been paying homage to him, she was now.

Maybe Dufresne was right, and Morley, Billy and Gates were on her conscience. _But how?_

 

_What if I’m not a victim of the situation? What if I am the situation?_

She fumbled with the dagger in her hands. The moonlight bouncing in the reflection.

The blurred figure of Flint suddenly came into focus for her to notice he was shaking his head.

 

She would’ve let the torrent of invectives out hadn’t she felt he recognised it all without her interfering. He was clearly aware of what he had done, what he was doing and what he was aspiring to do. Knew perfectly well what comeuppance he deserved. And all the same – he would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

It was plain to see for him – the inner confrontation. James knew she resented him, but didn’t fear. That there was a fraction of admiration and a bit of respect. But he wasn’t certain if she trusted him, because she wasn’t certain whether she should.


	7. X.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoping to upload 2 new chaps today ('cause they're short (and dim))  
> kudos are appreciated (:

A drop.

Another one.

Clear and ringing, water dripped into a tiny pool on the wood.

Billy scraped his eyes open. Timber.

Only a trace of light. The ceiling of the hold.

Not _his_ hold. The ship heeled over slightly and a fallen water cask rolled over the floor with a mellow, dull sound.

Bones ran his tongue along the roof of his mouth to feel the sticky dryness.

The last thing he remembered was the excruciating pain in his back, the dark transparency of water closing in over his head, firm pressure of the mass on his chest.  

He made an attempt to move around to get the blood moving, but something cracked in his nape. Puzzled, he gaped to gasp for air, and almost got insensible, taking a deep breath. The ribs tightened around the lungs, restricting his ability to fill them in.

He inhaled again, trying to breathe through the piercing ache that twined round him like chains. It was unbearable, a thousand daggers piercing his chest incessantly.

_The daggers._

Billy tried to lift his hands off his stomach only to find something unwonted weighting them down.

Conquering the raging pain in the neck, he lifted his head to look down on himself. _Shackled._

With a thud his skull fell back. _The Scarborough._

A vicious headache ringing his head, in league with giddiness and qualm.

_Better be dead than with the Navy again._

“Is it really?” a pure voice cut through the drip-drop.

Billy screwed his head around, sensing his heart pace up.

She sat a few feet away, hugging her knees pressed to her chest. The hair was a mess, and she looked at him phlegmatically.

His mouth dropped open when he saw the dark purple bruise on her neck.

“It doesn’t hurt, Billy,” she twittered, giving him a heartfelt smile. “However, how is your leg?”

Gazing back at his body he saw nothing out of whack about his leg. _What…?_

“They shinned you when dragging aboard.”

She was drenched through, the skin on her palms rent, and she ruined the breeches gripping at the fabric with her bloodied hands, the raw flesh on her elbows – just below the rolled sleeves – a sight painful to behold.

 _Was it all for naught? Did she fall when I did? Did the Walrus manage to break away? Did she not? Why is_ she _here? Why isn’t she in irons? They must’ve taken a shine to her… Was it all for naught?_

Bones unstuck his dry lips to formulate another question but a tide of alarm fitted over her face and she looked away.

He followed her glance and somehow it facilitated his ear – he heard footsteps approaching.

Billy turned to her again, but she wasn’t there.

In mere panic he was spinning his head around, searching the hold. She wasn’t there.

His jaw flexed, and he closed his eyes again. _Don’t be dead._

* * *

 

To say they treated him flippantly would be an understatement of the most critical sort. Recoil wasn’t the world to express what he felt either.

No wonder that when they sat him – hamstrung and steaming - facing Hume, the conversation simply wouldn’t jell. And when it came to giving response to the captain’s questions there were only two options for Billy to weigh – 'Fuck you' and spitting in the man’s face. He hadn’t seen her anymore, but there was a steady assurance she was around.

Hume learned quite fast it would take some strong measures to extort at least something from Bones, and Bones learned he’d have it hard stealing his way out of the whole mess when something rigid came in contact with his skull and he opened his eyes several hours later to see the celeste sky.

He would never know how much trouble they had stripping his hulky body and then trying to slip the leather vest onto him, not that knowing of their ado would sooth his mind – the leather was tighter than it was probably supposed to be.

Three days of broiling, plummeting in and out of consciousness and his chest constricted to the point he couldn’t even take a small breath.

Bones tried to send impulses to his limbs to get them stirring, but they wouldn’t respond. He only needed some lunges. And to draw blood. Preferably the blood of the people with more authority and money than sense and talent, who’d precipitated one too many problems upon his head and who’d annulled him once and were doing it again. The people he’d been waging a war against for years... _Better be dead._

“You’ve been waging a war against death for many more years.”

Sprawled on sticky sand, he slowly turned his head. She sat right next to him.

He hadn’t heard her approach. The soldiers that guarded him were having a good slack rather far away, but paid her no mind whatsoever. That was alarming. And her advocating for ‘Choose life’ campaign.

“I never said I will to die. I don’t fear death, and that’s quite another matter,” she reasoned.

It took him a minute or two of perusal to comprehend it. Her palms were bleeding again (or still), and she looked like a drowned rat, and it was highly unlikely she had had a morning swim. Days had passed and nothing about her changed. Sporting her inherent accoutrements – from the little wrinkle to the growing bruise – Galloway lodged her chin in the curve of her palm. She was a product of his inflamed imagination. He conjured her up. 

Billy shut his eyes and opened them again, but she didn’t vanish that time. He was going ape.

If she was an apparition, he thought, chances were he could control her, and Bones strained everything he believed was to be strained to administer a hallucination and ordered her to straighten her spine and sit tall.

Galloway didn’t move.

It was either he had taken a good measure of her and knew she wouldn’t obey thanks to her love affair with contumacy, or it wasn’t _him_ to initiate the company, but her.

Bones realised that at that moment when he was grasping at straws, damn near on his last legs, the girl wouldn’t be the first choice of a person to call up. And her whole entity was too detailed. There were pieces of information he didn’t deem critical and wouldn’t have taken notice of: her neatly trimmed nails and dainty fingers, no rings, a callus on the middle digit of the right hand, the chapped lips and the note of her voice… She was dead _._

_Oh, God._

“God is a lie created to console us in a moment of distress. You will have to implement a change to witness it. He’s not doing it for you.”

She brought a draught of latent. Still cushioning her face in her hand, she stared at him and seeing incomprehension paint his features added, “It’s not going to last long, but after…”

Billy parted his lips to let out a wheeze.

“Just hold fast, Billy, all right?”

That grated on him. She clearly didn’t know what she was talking about. The feeling when you get frantic to break free and know you’re about to bellow out loud but you don’t and suddenly there’s a revulsion to life and you believe you’d rather be dead than experience that…

Maybe she did know that feeling after all.

 

It was the last time she visited him.

* * *

 

In defiance to all Flint’s expectations, Galloway didn’t intent to reduce their interaction to zero. It wouldn’t have worked anyways, especially with Silver who didn’t take long to prove the futility of trying to nullify him. There was still some sort of communication between the ousted ones and herself; not much but enough to exhibit she didn’t genuinely care about appearing questionable in the eyes of the crew. It took her a lot not to intervene in what Silver later would christen as ‘enforcing the policy of ingratiating oneself within the crew, serving as a punching bag to reveal the intestine strife, feuds and intricacies of the given community’. And Flint would watch her sitting there, with her head reclined upon her hand, monitoring John letting the pirates kick the shit out of him in a holy cause. And James knew that she, inversely to John, would never take the beating ex gratia to attain anything. A stranded little animal, no sustenance, absolutely incongruous to the scrapheap of a pirate vessel, she adhered to the principles.

He’d seen her a couple of times: in his past life.

 

_She bursts in the parlour, a jaunty creature, and spending a couple of seconds at most on a curtsy, greeting the present company, rushes to her father. In a voice so very high-pitched she goes to chirrup something to Faulkner in a tempo nonperceptible to the human ear. Not ill-mannered, but rather easily excited – a trait commonly found in children. Someone complements on her dress, her attention switches for a second and Galloway cheekily agrees with the statement. Not really curious about the guests._

_“She cares a great deal about her dresses, but if you put a sack on her she won’t know the difference, as long as it’s not constraining.”_

_Always afoot. Alluding to the books McGraw himself has only read recently._

_“She’s turning nine next month. Mighty proud of it. The number must have some sacred meaning to her,” her father laughs._

 

The tell-tale glow of her skin was now gone. More than ten years had passed, and she was different. More watchful and less ballistic – the signs of growing up. Still quite reckless and keen – something gifted by nature. Occasionally poetic roll of the eyes slipping into an askance look. The mindset - a mystery. Uncustomary not irksome for the pirates. And just a rational measure of customary distrust to the said pirates.

Out of all people aboard only two seemed to have problem with her.

 

She didn’t consider either Vincent or Dufresne to be her issue for not much could be done about them. But, as if watching John getting thrashed was somehow not hard enough, there was Randall, who wasn’t really facilitating it for Galloway. He came up with a new idea of spitting into the bowls, and that tactics was hard to contend against.

And, torn into two, she would spend the waking hours trying to unravel another addlement.

“You fucked the dairy goat?”

Galloway wrinkled her nose. She eyed Flint sitting not far from her as if to consult with him on the issue.

The harpy of a man who found people so utterly stupid and ignorant and downright sore to deal with at times. Where was the esteem coming from?

* * *

 

Maybe it was his thinly-veiled concern for her that was displayed the moment the inbound merchant ship from Kingston appeared on the horizon, and Flint took her elbow.

“You, stay here,” he walked her to Silver resting on the aft deck. “And that,” he pointed at the pistol, “you’d better hide it.”

“I believe you did advise him against it,” she said calmly, seeing Dufresne encourage the crew before the hunting.

“I did,” the captain returned surly.

“He could’ve known better…”

“Are you rooting for the only person who wants and will clear you out of the ship when we reach Nassau?”

“No.”

Silver pursed his lips.

 

“Men in these waters are hard men,” said Flint watching the deck of the merchant vessel. “They don't fear ships. They don't fear guns. They don't fear swords.”  
Galloway licked her lips.

“Then what do they fear?” John sifted on his feet, a lock of curls leaking from behind his ear.

The girl looked at the men. Did she fear ships? If she had, she wouldn’t have been aboard one. Did she fear guns? Had she, she wouldn’t have been holding one. Did she fear swords? _Does a dagger count?_ What did she fear? Did she fear pain? Death? Hell? Loss?

 _Living._ Something that magically and artistically encompassed all of the above.

 

The English must have understood the imminent death was not so imminent and resorted to their arms. The Walrus crew were retreating back to the Man o’ war.

Galloway was biting her lower lip mercilessly, breath getting sharper.

Her hand moved by itself.

Much to her surprise, and Silver’s, if anything, she shot, killing a sailor who had pulled his cutlass at one of her crew. The fact she didn’t miss the aim seemed to be outstanding.

John jerked the gun from her shaky fingers when she lowered it and expressed no ambition to move.

She hadn’t missed and now couldn’t conclude it was something to be happy or sad about.

 

Meantime, Dufresne was failing at delivering orders, a special thanks to De Groot who was frustrating him. But Flint’s commands were followed, that could merely mean one and only thing – he was the captain again. Gal swallowed with difficulty. 


	8. XI.

“Is she alive?”

“Dead, just won’t admit it,” replied Galloway.

She lay in her hammock with her arms crossed, legs pressed to the chest. Eyes shut, trying her best to insulate herself from the frantic excitement the ship was teeming with after the crew had been barred from coming ashore. Stripped of any chance to whore and glory in booze, the pirates were forced to seek entertainment elsewhere.

“Would you…sew my sleeve back? Please.”

The girl opened her eyes. Bobby. Half an hour ago the crew were enraptured watching him clamber the bowsprit. _You fared well not to lose your arm._ She let her feet dangle off the hammock.

“Take it off.”

“In your dreams…” Bobby sang seductively.

“Come again?”

 

She was touchy that day. Flint and Silver left, abandoning her with the crew under Dufresne’s command. But she didn’t give a flying fuck about the new quartermaster. She was touchy and the crew saw it. And made no remark. She’d yelled at the carpenter for stealing a knife from the cook room earlier that day, and he made no remark. She was a thundercloud and no one made a remark. She’d killed a man.

She was touchy that day. They’d all been there.

 

“Galloway!” she threw her head up when she heard Logan shouting through the hatch, “Come up.”

“Needles and threads are in the galley, ask Randall,” the girl dropped on her way to the main deck.

 

She only missed London when the sun was trying to burn her eyes out. _Did he have a family?_

Galloway bent over the board. Silver squinted as he looked up, waving a hand at her.

 

“What is it about?” she wavered, trying to sit in the longboat. “Can’t hunt for liquor alone?”

“Flint wants you.”

The girl craned her neck, taking the oars John handed her, “For what possible…”

“Captain Hornigold is currently sojourning on the beach…”

“Why should it interest me?”

“Because he usually resides in the fort he controls, the one that protects the bay and the entrance to the harbour.”

“Well, I might be a bit slow, but…?”

“It’s Captain Vane’s flag that flies over it.”

“Well, I surmise Flint either doesn’t like it and wants Vane…” she pronounced the name making it clear she had no idea how to spell it, “… removed, or he likes it and…”

“He doesn’t like it.”

Galloway gritted her teeth and closed her eyes for a few seconds.

“Getting back to the initial question…” she said affectedly calm.

“I don’t know for what possible reason.”

John smiled when she bore him with an annoyed stare.  

* * *

 

Flint didn’t say a word until she examined the paper and the coins he’d shoved into her hands the second she touched the sand with her soles.

“Taking into account Vane’s hold on the fort and the prospect of it all winding up… erratic, I believe you shall be much safer with my friend, Mrs Barlow.”

“Erm…” Gal blinked, not sure what question it begged.

“I want you out of the sightlines while we negotiate.”

“Who’s Mrs Barlow?” her thumb and pointer finger skimmed the edge of the coin.

“There’s a carriage waiting for you.”

“Have you talked with Miss Guthrie?”

“I have,” he parried in a blasé tone.

“And what…”

“We have no time for this,” if a wave of the hand could be a sentence, it would be that.

Galloway flared her nostrils. Flint wasn’t the best at subterfuge. She turned to John, appealing for some backing, but he only shrugged, eyes widening.

“There’s more to it, isn’t there?” her lips thin.

But the captain turned his back to her, waking away, heralding no further argument was anticipated.

Disputing with that person was as good as riding an unbridled horse.

“Just go,” he added, a note of solicitude in his voice. “I’ll send for you when we’ll be sailing.”

“Will you?”

James simply walked on.

“Take care.”

Her eyes flickered to John and she swallowed, “You too.”

* * *

 

The sun was up, colouring the trees and the grass a pleasant hue of yellowish-green. The patter of hoofs echoed in Gal’s ears. The air was somehow sultrier than on the ship, thick and humid, and she prayed the soil would cool off by dawn.

_A Mrs Barlow._

The Mrs Barlow, whose letter Gal had the pleasure to familiarize with, whose handwriting was so neat and firm…

She let her eyes fall to the piece of paper she’d been twiddling in her fingers. The letter of introduction Flint had written, to give to the woman so that no suspicion would arise. What had he scaled to fit on there?

 _Wait, Flint reigns supreme in the field of subterfuge_.

Her pointer finger slipped into the fold of the paper. Biting the inside of her lower lip she spread it open.

‘Galloway, the daughter of Edward Faulkner.’

She stared ahead, ‘ _Is that it?’_

The girl’s head was rocking in time with the horses’ swift steps. It felt empty – the head. _I’ve merely saved a crew ._ She regarded the landscape with her eyes half-closed.

_A rather insinuating introduction._

 

Miranda was standing on the porch, her hands on her stomach, and smiling a pitying smile. Already on the watch for her. The girl descended from the carriage and thanked the lasher, dropping the coin into his open palm.

 

She stretched the letter out. Mrs Barlow’s eyes roamed the tiny scrap and her lips pursed.

Her arm twined round the girl’s shoulders, bringing her to embrace the lady by the middle.

“I’ll boil you some water,” a good-natured smile.

 

After Galloway shed her swinish clothes, scrubbed her skin of the dirt and blood and solved the tangle of her hair, Miranda and herself used their best efforts to fit the girl into a skirt.

She chuckled when Mrs Barlow suggested cutting a vent.

 

“I haven’t worn it in ages,” she confessed, putting her hands on her knees as she was hunkering down.

“Do you know my father?” Galloway titled her chin, gulping.

“Yes,” Miranda blinked lingeringly.

“How?” the frown on the girl’s forehead was getting deeper.

“He was a guest of mine.”

“Oh, then… When he was here... years ago?” her voice got so small.

“Yes,” another benevolent smile.

“All right.”

That was enough for her. _A friend._

“He told me about you.”

“Did he?” Gal beamed, but tears sparkled in her eyes.

“Yes. Good things.”

She knew she could bite through her lip if she kept pressing her teeth so violently. The girl inclined her head, closing her eyes, and forced a tranquil smile. And nodded.

“Will you have a cup of tea?” Mrs Barlow breathed out, looking up at Galloway, smoothing her skirt. _She would’ve remembered me hadn’t she been so disregarding of adults._

”I’d love to.”

 

They discussed, in a roundabout way, the betterment of morality (simply because mankind was capable of such a trick) when they picked potatoes; talked about how many attempts at courtship the girl had sustained on the ship already when they were making dinner; and strolled around Barlow’s premises holding a conversation on Christian poetry (a topic not much to Gal’s liking, but better than scorns of damaged conscience).  

Mrs Barlow was nice, Galloway figured. Gentle and clement. With demons of her own, full of righteous piety. A pack animal by nature, secluded.

Day in day out surrounded by cutthroats, Miranda’s mere presence was something the girl was comfortably content with. She found herself under no probing whatsoever about the reasons and causes of her presence right there and then… and it mellowed her. It was quiet and peaceful, the sun was going down and everything invited her to dally. The ship drifting in the harbour seemed a dream and the pirate crew a distant aeriality. The soporific ambient forced her to smother a yawn when it was just starting to get dark. _What was his name?_

 

Galloway climbed onto her bed, tucking her feet under her bottom, and leaned against the wall. Thumbing through the pages of a thick book she closed her eyes. But instead of the slate of her lids there were bursts of flame, blood, grime, mutilated bodies and faces - far cry from faces. A plummet was weighting her heart down. _Betrayal._

_‘Jesus’, he breathed out._

A worm of conscience. The stiff pain forbade a lungful.

 

She woke up to lilting keening coming from the parlour. Her neck-bone stiff and cold, glued to the wall. Galloway smacked her lips and rubbed her eyes. She must’ve succumbed to the soft, tear-infused sleep. The first wish fulfilled in the last year – the temperature had fallen and she toed the cool wood of the floor, feet half-congealed. Slowly, the girl converged to the noise.

 

There were three children crowing in the room, two boys and a baby girl. One of the little fellows was semi-competently pounding out a tune on the clavichord under Miranda’s surveillance, the girl was asleep on her mother’s arms – the young woman in a cap bordered with lace blinked up at Galloway and dissolved into a sweet smile. And the third child, a lad of five, at most, sat at the table, legs swinging under the top, and wouldn’t take his eyes off Galloway since she came into view round the corner.

Miranda motioned for her to sit, a pleasant smile as if there was a fourth child in front of her.  

“My name is Heather,” said Mrs Barlow’s guest and carefully freed one of her arms from under her daughter to stretch her hand out. “I live three houses away,” she nodded as Gal squeezed her palm.

The girl cracked a smile when the baby yawned and her cheeks got squashed by the strings of the bonnet, “Galloway.”

“This is Rosie,” Heather wiped drool off Rosie’s chin. “And this little music admirer is Michael.”

The boy moved his head an inch, but didn’t look at Galloway, and bowed his head before turning back to the instrument.

“And this is Jimmy. Jimmy, quit staring.”

The boy’s cheeks swelled as he beamed, lowering his gaze.  
Galloway finally eased on the chair, setting the book down on the table. But after a quarter of an hour of light chatter with the ladies she felt something worrying her skirt.

Jimmy’s fingers paddled the drapes of the fabric as his big eyes roamed her face and he peeped, “Will you read?”

Galloway’s mouth fell slightly open and she held her breath: her eyes skipped to the book and up to the child’s associated caregiver. The golden letters on the brown cover read _Don Quixote._ The subject matter might not be suitable for a five-year-old.

“Oh, that’s all right,” Heather smiled, shaking her head. “He won’t remember anything...” she added in a conspiratorial whisper.  

With uncertainty Gal reached for the book, but the boy put his palms on her thigh, jumping a little.

“All rightie,” she giggled and pulled him onto her lap, putting her hands under his arms. When Jimmy snugged cosily, she opened the volume to discover another hitch.

“This is in Spanish,” arching an eyebrow at him, Galloway tucked her lower lip. But the boy nodded fervently, as if he knew that from the off. Gal breathed out a chuckle.

 

She read and read and read and eventually threw glances at Heather (she knew the novel close by heart and could afford it; and the boy wouldn’t have known a fib anyway) – Jimmy was gawping at her, mouth open as he followed her lips articulating words in a language secret and thus so entrancing to him. His little hands absentmindedly playing with drawstrings of Miranda’s blouse Galloway was wearing.

Eventually, the boy leaned on Gal’s arm and just stared at her, smiling, making it crystal clear the book wasn’t in the scope of concerns.

“He is in love with you,” said Miranda when sleep permeated the little jowly angel.

The girl smiled wider, afraid to stir and rouse the child who refused to let go of her sleeve even asleep.

The fire flickered warmly and the sounds the clavichord was sheading got a little more agreeable.

* * *

 

The light was murky bluish aurorae when Galloway slipped out of the bed.

The hair wild and eyes barely unsticking, she shuffled to the kitchen barefoot. She cupped some water from a pail and splashed her face. Droplets stuck to the tip of her nose and little hairs of her eyebrows.

Mrs Barlow left for the church or _… congregation or something_.

Puffing, Gal looked around. Nothing goaded her for almost twelve hours and it was getting suspicious.

_‘Consider yourself at home.’_

The girl opened the kettle to see water on the bottom, enough for a cup. The lid clattered when she set it back on.

The chips cracked in the fireplace, licked by orange flames, and Galloway plopped down onto the floor in front of it.

 

An ardent knock on the door jolted her out of her mind palace and she jumped to her feet.

“Galloway?”

The girl froze.

“I know she’s here.”

Galloway gulped down a lump of fear.

“Tell her it’s Idelle.”

 

She opened the door a crack, but the wench invited herself in, “May I come in, right?”

Only Idelle had to shut the door the same second – she came with two men and Galloway was rather dressed down for the occasion.

“Sitting tight, I see. I brought you some of you things…”

“What… for?”

“I thought your captain secreted you here,” the prostitute hoicked a brow.

“He did, pending the fort effort…”

“Two sailors, the Navy, I assume, are in town,” Idelle frowned deeply, scrutinising Gal’s distorting features, “looking for an English woman, a young woman.”

“Named…?” thrown off balance, she held onto the back of a chair.

“Don’t disclose it… yet.”

“Jesus…”

“Didn’t you know?”

“No,” Galloway gritted her teeth. “I have to revert,” she licked her lips, eyes flicked up at the harlot.

“What?”

“I can’t stay here,” her head was shaking as she looked round feverously.

“But Flint….”

“I don’t want to put her in danger.”

“Whom?”

“Put out the fire,” she ordered, turning round.

 

The girl flew out of the house to the back yard and went to tear off her drying shirt and trousers off the clothes lines. The grass was still wet and cold with dew and she realised _what a scandal_ it would be if someone saw her then. Only in a shift.

“Listen, I don’t know what the hell is…” Idelle followed her into the allotted room.

“Will you take me back to town? Please?” Gal glanced at her over the shoulder, pulling her clothes on.

“Sure,” the woman nodded, perplexed she would even ask such a question. “We’ll stash you in your room in the brothel…”

“Nonono. Don’t. I’ll leave,” dithered, she tied the scarf round her hips and stashed the dagger in.

Idelle threw her head back when Galloway stormed off again.

“You will leave to… where?” she countered gravely, leaning against the table when Galloway sat on the edge of a chair, a quill in her hand. “First, no ship leaves the haven in the nearest future; second… you ain’t fucking leaving!”

The girl reached across the tabletop for a piece of paper, turned it round to ascertain it was of no value, and placed it in front of herself, dipping the point of the feather into an inkpot, “And what am I doing?”

“I’ll lock you down in your room. No one will find you,” Idelle shrugged. “If you have some money, we can silence the whores and…”  
“No,” Gal forced her eyes at Idelle, biting her lower lip. Her mind was swirling, faced with a new ‘so-hungrily-expected’ problem.  “Don’t tell anyone. That I’m back. Not a soul should know.”

“All right.”

“Not even Flint. No one.”

“Yes,” Idelle straightened and her stare shifted to the window.

For a minute there was no sound, but quiet whistle of wind outside and quill scraping against paper. 

“Any inkling who could’ve done that?”

Galloway raised her eyes to consider the wench, the pen spinning between her fingers, “Yes.”

Idelle gave a knowing toss of the head. 

* * *

 

Bones reeled as he stood up on a longboat, brought up by a bellicose poke of a rifle in his back. He took a view of the endless sea besieging him and the three accompanying mariners.  His lips parted and brows drawn down, shoulders vexed. Another nudge and he turned round to glare at the fucker.

No land in sight whatsoever, he doubted their forcing him out right there enhanced Hume’s chances to get what he desired. It rather pruned Billy’s chances of coming out with his life intact.

 _‘Dying with the pride intact isn’t really an option…’_  

He shook her out of his head.

But the English evaluated him a supposed guru of surviving in hostile developments.

 

The offer sounded dangerously close to revolutionary… to treason.

 

Billy regarded the waters once again and squinted at the sun. He’d been fed, nourished to some extent, but his body was limp after days of stationary existence.

Bones rolled his shoulders. Not fighting for his life was another state he wouldn’t want his father to see him in.

“New Providence is that way,” said one of the sailors, pointing forward.

“I know.”

He dived in head downwards. A dozen of seconds – the most he’d managed underwater before breaking the surface with a deep, loud, sharp inhale.

His arms smarted like holly hell as he swam. In fifteen minutes that tried to equal hours he saw a thin line of land.

 

Billy blamed it on the overjoy, but he lost consciousness three yards from strand line.

 

Lancinating pain stroked his skin and he felt someone tug him across the sand and pebbles, out of the water. The affined roll of the waves over the shore. Home.

 

* * *

 

Miranda untied the ribbons under her chin.

“I brought apples form Mrs Illyot’s garden, want to have a bite?”

No reply followed.

“Galloway?”

She went past the table with Cervantes’ work resting on top of it, untouched. No cups bothered in the kitchen and the kettle exactly where she’d left it that morning.

“Galloway?” her melodic voice trembled on the third syllable. Mustering the remnants of composure, she settled the basket on the counter.

She’d lodged Miss Faulkner in a small room down the hall, and chamber looked vacant again. The thin veil on the window was up in the air as wind rustled it, undefended by the open casement. The bed made up irreproachably, the clothes she’d been wearing the day before folded in the similar seamless manner. A piece of paper mounted on top of the neat pile.  

 

Miranda’s eyes danced through the words written in a peculiar handwriting – letters round and slouching to the wrong side – _hers_. Mrs Barlow fingers covered her parted lips. Her look immediately darted up when she reached the closing line. Her palm lay on her forehead and her eyes shut, “Oh, dear heart.”

* * *

 

  
“Have you read these?”

Idelle held out two books and Galloway took them with a smile.

“Um...” she flicked the dust away from the frayed covers. _La Celestina_ and _History of the Reign of King Henry VII_. _My arse._ “No,” the girl lied with a grin on her face. It must’ve taken Idelle too much trouble to dig up those two copies in the brothel – not a library – and Galloway didn’t want to disappoint her, let alone send her off on another tiresome quest. “Thank you!”

She hadn’t sent her on the first one, either. The wench hauled her a pillow and a blanket to keep the mattress company, a comb, a key to the door and - well, something (the only thing) Gal had asked for - a sewing set. And then she came back with the books.

“You’re welcome. I’ll have a client in half an hour, so Siya will bring you the food. I asked her to knock and leave the plate under the door, all right?”

“Oh, yes. Thank you! How could I return the favour…?”

“We’ll find a way, bird,” Idelle winked, smirking, and shut the door behind her, turned her key in the lock.

Galloway stretched to put the books next to the one she already had – Billy’s Rabelais. His _New Atlantis_ had gone west with the Walrus. Now the little coterie of spines looked wholesome.

She eyed them for a moment and then looked back at the rough bluish fabric of Bones’ threadbare jacket. It was threadless now, as she’d pulled all the threads holding the sleeves, and was just preparing to piece them back on. She’d already stitched all the other clothes she’d inherited from him, and her fingers were sore from the needle pricks and the cotton running over the skin.

However, one of his shirts didn’t survive – she’d torn it to design something she was royally proud of. Something that was holding her bosom in place.  
_Hope you aren’t mad, Billy. And if you are, I’d like to see you in a woman’s body with no stays warranted._

It was him who wouldn’t allow it. Not directly, but trousers somehow implicated it.  
And Galloway was… glad not to wear it.

Her self-built undergarment was nothing to write home about – just a wide belt of layered fabric, but she fit buttons onto it, for more practical wear.

Galloway smiled when she thought of it. Sewing, locked in a tiny room in a brothel, in the heart of Nassau astir, in the middle of lumpy sea, she felt safe and easy.


	9. XII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back, as Shakespeare has it

Deafly heard whisper of the wind. Clatter of closing doors and windows shutting. A soft footfall against sand trampled into solidness. Cheerful, ringing laughter – girly. Unhurried voices, low and easy, convolved into a flowing conversation. The fishwife desperately touting, but losing the battle to the brothel’s building itself. It needed no pimp, it enjoyed the reputation.

The appeasing sounds of the street.

A door banged open. Splash of water. The low voice rising. A profanity enunciated. The slam of the wing lost in an outgush of invectives.

Galloway opened her eyes and slowly translated her gaze to the window. _Someone must’ve tipped piss out of a bucket._

She moved her fingers to feel the fabric of Billy’s jacket. One sleeve yet to go.

“Screw it,” the girl mouthed, tossing the sewing on the mattress next to herself.

Her dry hands rubbed her face, and then she pressed the pads of her fingers against her closed eyes.

A surge of anxiety kicked the lump in her throat and Galloway breathed in audibly.

“Screw it.”

The nails dug in the mellow flesh on her cheeks as the girl squirmed.

She’d deprived Mrs Barlow of undisturbed sleep. Any sleep whatsoever, most likely. (But little did she know it was only half of the issue. Miranda would bellow for Gal’s company when the priest would be bold enough as to call on her at night again.)

She’d acted in the worst faith possible… And now she was self-locked in a room smaller than a privy, afraid to look out of the window, leaping up at any sound, wincing at the memories. Like an animal, _stupid, empty-headed, callow little…_

The stairs creaked. _Siya._

Galloway dashed off the mattress and clung to the floor, narrowing one eye. Through an uneven slit between the door and the floor she could see the growing shadow of the young woman. The steps were getting clearer and Galloway hastily, but with no sound, pressed a coin to the wooden planks. A pair of well-worn shoes inches from her nose. The shadow broke as the person on the yonder side bent down to put a bowl onto the floor. And before Siya could straighten back, Galloway gave a gentle flick on the coin and it slid to dully clank against the crockery.

A moment of hesitation, but the shadow didn’t morph. Slender, dark fingers peeled the money off the floor.

“Oh… bless you,” in a thick African accent, the anaemic voice excited.

Galloway breathed out again, a smile touched the corner of her mouth.

Twelve raps against the wooden steps and the girl knew Siya was downstairs.

With her own key Gal opened the door and her hand gathered the food in. Soup and, _thank God_ , two slices of bread.

She hastily locked herself back and dived into the meal. Her last mess was almost twenty-four hours away from the present moment, a disastrously long time ago. Not even a cup of tea in the morning. One of the cantles was damp with the broth, and the spoon was scalding hot from being in the amber liquid, as if she noticed. If there was one thing that could put an end to the heated argument in her head, it was a fresh hunk of bread.

* * *

 

“Get… Gates,” after a few staggering attempts, Hal’s name finally croaked out of Billy’s mouth. 

Silver’s jaw dropped a bit and his slanting eyes finally landed on Randall as he looked over his shoulder. The cook offered him an owlish look.

Seeing that Bones’ eyes drifted closed again, John rose to come up to the half-wit and took him by the forearm.

“Bring him Gates,” countered Randall when Silver ventured to pull him outside.

“Randall, Gates is…”

“Bring Gates,” he persisted, and John almost rolled his eyes to see his own brain when it sank in, “You say you know where she is.”

 _I say what I have to say._ And gainsaying now wasn’t the definitive option.

Silver knew she wasn’t a Gates. And, _oh well_ , so did Billy. It’d been him to bring Hal to her the first day.

 _But Randall?_ She still was Gates’ girl to him, and John knew Flint wouldn’t pat him on the shoulder should her real identity leak into the addle brains of the crew. He’d later call it ‘demonstrating the respect for his promises and commitments’, but for now it was ‘you ask for Gates, you have one.’

Moreover, he thought, she was not only better than nothing; she was something with a head.

“I’ll fetch Gates. Watch Billy,” John beckoned to the body that might not have been a corpse but definitely smelled like one. 

Silver walked out into the sunset soaked evening. Advise Flint? Find the lasher who took her away? Traipse about the island amid hopes he’d run into her? The island wasn’t too big… _Fair enough._

Or maybe find a boat and yet advise Flint..?

* * *

 

The bowl, licked clean, stood by the door and Galloway drilled it with her eyes when Idelle’s key clicked in the lock.

The wench flew into the room, her stays barely tied and threatening to let down her rich bosom.

“Here, here,” her fingers clapped against the palm of the same hand as she reached for the girl, signalling for her to stand up. Galloway scrambled to her feet, following Idelle to the window. The harlot smelled of ... her business, lust and sweet sudor, and her body was radiating warmth of, possibly, someone else’s body.

“It’s them.”

The girl swallowed, examining the flushed cheeks and baby hairs sticking to the glinting forehead. Galloway blinked before tracing Idelle’s gaze.

“Who?” her neck lengthened.

“The men. Who are asking about you.”

Gal gulped again, casting her eyes down.

No Navy coats, but the honed down boots and intact trousers betraying allegiance to the Crown. With their backs to the brothel, two marines leisurely walked the street.

“I don’t recognize them…” Gal shook her head, eyes glued to a short blond tail of one of the sailors.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve had a group of men chasing me along the coast of the colonies, but I’ve not seen them since Carolina… Shook them off, I believe…”

“Or they didn’t think a girl would venture down the map alone,” mused the wench.

“Could be that, but anyway… these are … new.”

Idelle bit her lower lip, nodding. Her fingers tapped on the narrow windowsill.

Then she stared at Galloway.

“Does Flint have the gold?”

The girl was struck numb.

“How long have you been in the interior?” a cock of an eyebrow.

“A…a few days…” her eyes skimmed Idelle’s features. Checking the reaction.

“Hence you haven’t been on the ship?” the interrogation continued.

“No,” she answered cautiously.

“And you don’t know where the gold is?” a sly smirk laced her cheek with a dimple.

“I don’t,” _what the hell am I doing?_

“All right,” the prostitute tilted her chin. “And that?” she took Galloway’s hand and pushed the sleeve up her arm to reveal a cut. A new one. “A shovel?”

“No, that’s…” _please, crack me._

Idelle unbraced the brows. Sometimes lying was a part of survival instinct; it was nothing to blame for.

“If you’ve not seen these men, it is just possible they’ve never seen you,” she clicked her tongue, facing the window fully. “It eases the problem if they don’t know you by appearance, but you still have to learn to be shamelessly mendacious to survive,” Idelle looked at Gal sideways with a warm smile. “It was Flint who told me where you were.”

_Oh, Jesus crucified Christ._

First Miranda, and now she almost deprived herself of her protector in the brothel.

“Idelle, I implore forgiveness, I…”

“No, I’m earnest. Lying, Galloway, is… Wait,” the wench squinted at something at the foot of the building in front. “Isn’t it one of you men?”

Gal grasped the window frame, leaning forwards. Idelle squeezed her shoulder, tucking her back in, but blank torpor captured the girl’s face as she whispered, “Oh, God.”

 

Silver came to a halt. When his mouth finally closed and he verified thrice it was her, he waved over.

“Don’t…”

“I only have to tell him Flint mustn’t learn about it…”

“Galloway!”

“His mouth rivals loose bowels, Idelle…” the girl picked her shoes up, but the wench almost kicked them out of her hands, chuckling.

“Will he fucking stop it?”

John kept gesturing and Idelle had to push the girl deeper inside the room, shutting the window, “Is he stupid?”

“I’m no judge, really.”

“Oh, he is…”

When the wench reached to open the window again, Gal came closer.

“Hey,” John’s voice was louder than she’d anticipated. _How…?_ “I’m sorry to baffle, but you are needed.”

The women poked their heads out to see him standing on a table, proud and mighty.

“Get down, you, bugger!” hissed the wench.

“Only when she does.”

“What are you doing here? I thought Flint barred you from visiting the place,” Galloway looked around timidly.

“He doesn’t know about it. He will equally not know about your disregarding his orders if you come with me now…”

“A little piece of shit,” chortled Idelle, fists on the hips, shaking her head, “Fucking peeper.”

“It’s an emergency.”

“All right,” the girl shrugged.

“No,” snapped the whore.

“I’ll be back in half an hour. Will it be enough for your emergency?”

“Even it will do, if your Cerberus permits…”

“Hold tight to you manhood. Or what’s left of it,” Idelle’s lips pursed in a derisive smile. “And what kind of emergency is that…?”

Her voice was dissolving as Galloway forced her feet into the shoes, laced them hurriedly, and covered her head and some of her face with the scarf.

She was on the stairs in seconds, skipping steps, almost tripping, and pushed the door downstairs open with her shoulder, which wasn’t really the intention. A few corners later she grasped Silver’s sleeve and pulled him down.

“Half an hour,” said Idelle before the girl nodded and the window shut for good.

 

“What do you want?” her breath was uneven as she tried to keep pace with brisk Silver.

“I knew he’d sent you out of town, thought it would be a conundrum to find you, but the search turned out to be considerably easier than I anticipated.”

“You are welcome.”

“So, why exactly are you not wherever the fuck Flint’s stashed you?”

“I need to leave.”

Silver stopped short, and she rammed into him on the instant. Holding the scarf under her chin, Galloway looked at John from under the eyebrows, annoyed with the swiftness of his reaction to her words. Silver returned the vexed sight and started off again, picking up steam.

“And where?”

“Somewhere.”

“And why would you contemplate that?”

“Because the crew doesn’t…”

John interrupted her before she found herself desperate to come up with something, “Oh, I’ve been on the ship today. They actually miss you.”

Galloway sucked her teeth. He was indeed a more proficient liar when she’d seen him last.

“A person who doesn’t take any interest in the gold is a perfect addition to the hands. And you don’t even aim to claim Gates’ rake-off… Well, that’s actually suspicious, but… Moreover, it’ll kill Muldoon if you leave…” he turned to glance at her eventually, with a semblance of a reassuring smile. _What for?_

“Oh, thank you very much,” Galloway did try not to sound annoyed. “Still, please, be bothered to explain where are we spanking and why…?” she felt a switch of topic begged to be introduced.

“Flint sent me to persuade the unaffiliated pirates in Nassau to join his side and not Vane's.”

 _Oh my God._ He would now suck her into a narrative that had nothing, not even close, to do with her to veneer the substantial reason, but the girl concluded to play along, “And where do I come in?”

“You don’t, it’s not for that.”

She smiled at him and Silver smiled back.

“So, I’ll see, right?”

“Precisely.”

* * *

 

Bones’ eyes still screeched when he moved the lids. Dehydration was keeping in touch as well, the headache monstrous. The portal rustled and Randall said ‘Hello’ in his standard tasteless fashion. _Gates._ Billy could almost hear his heart beating, anxious to see the hefty frame of his friend.

His vision was still blurry, but once he could discern the incomers, he knew for sure whoever it was, it wasn’t Gates. It looked more like… _Silver, in a skirt_. And then there was another Silver, in his usual apparel.

It would’ve disturbed Bones hadn’t he seen things worse already…

The first Silver – _oh, Jesus, he’s in a kerchief_ – breathed a short, tight sigh, “Oh my…”

But Billy was too jaded to decipher the words that followed.

The dressed up John suddenly rushed towards him, uncharacteristic gait, and the contourless frame quickly solidified into a softer form. It crashed down onto its knees right next to him, surging a wave of fresh air. It smelled of herbs and flowers he had no luck identifying. The figure removed the scarf, liberating the dark hair, and he was mantled in the scent.

“Billy…?”

He recognised her voice at once, tinted so wet and worried. She sounded breathless. Her flying touch on his face, the fingers colder than his frosty relationship with the Empire. _Death cold._

“Billy,” she shifted closer, and her face finally came into focus. A tight-lipped smile and the chin tremulous as she was holding back the tears that welled in her black eyes.

 

Her stomach churned.

It was Billy. Alive. A withered mummy of a man, dilute limbs, hands resting lifeless on his chest. Stiff bristles covered his sunken cheeks, skin burnt and red and peeling, scorched by the pitiless sun, eyes irritated by the salt of the sea. Pupils dilated and the stare… almost mental. _What has become of you?_

The light of the lantern that stood right next to his head charcoaled a deep shade on one side of his face. Alive. The dauntless man stranded. But alive. _Oh God._ The bliss overwhelmed the pain. Her chest warmed, blood rushed through the veins violently to the point she felt nauseous.

She just _had to_ embrace him. But she couldn’t. Not really. It would be improper, let alone physically inexecutable. Now she was simply holding his scratchy face in her hands, resisting the urge to press her forehead against his and laugh out loud. _What a glory._

 

She merely looked into his eyes, wrestling the tears, and his heart swelled. Then she blew a sharp breath – the air she never realised was locked inside – and a wide smile, a grin, adorned her lips. She sealed them only to break into another quivering beam, breath coming out in keen, repetitive, but soundless sighs. He never knew if his own smile, a faint one, broke the surface, for he barely acknowledged his control over his body. But he did try.

He only kept batting, eyes pink and swollen. All his efforts to utter something, anything, merely ended in grunts escaping his mouth. And she would duck closer, brows twitching, trying to make a word out. Her lips parted and he could see the marks of her teeth harassing them.

“Oh, Jesus” she cheeped in a small voice.

“Not quite,” edged in John.

Galloway wrung her head and her hair, the dark river that looked almost uncombed, flowed down her shoulder. The long muscle in her neck protruded, gathering attention, and Billy saw the purple mark on the tender skin petering out, yellowing and fining away. Her hands sunk onto his chest, and he could still perceive the iciness through the coarse cloth of his shirt. But there was no blood.

“Where did you…” Galloway couldn’t comprehend how she was so solitary in her euphoria to see a dead man almost well, alive, though far from thriving, when she cast her eyes on Silver. It must be confessed Randall did look pleased as well, but it could be for having a company other than Silver, “How did he?”

“Was washed up on shore, this morning,” John crossed his arms on his chest.

“Send for someone…”

“Gates,” Bones finally managed to articulate his request.

The girl’s fingers moved, curling round the rim of his neckline cut. Her skin was warming up bit by bit.

She took a glance at him, but then turned back to the cooks. Silver arched an eyebrow.

“Where’s Gates?” Billy repeated, louder and clearer that time.

He had her looking back at him. Her face relaxed completely for barely a breath. Now she did understand why she was there. The wrinkle of her forehead was gaining saturation as her eyes fell to his chest, her mouth twitched up in a smile and the fingers fiddled with his shirt. He was afraid she was going out of her head.  But then her brows bumped together, a wailful moan slipped past her conscience, and Bones twinged. She sniffled, gulping down, and looked to the side, gnawing her lips in pure anguish. Had he possessed the strength, he would’ve taken her by the shoulders and given her a good shake. _No._ He would never have. She gazed down at him. Her mouth fell open a couple of times, but to no result. She wasn’t even capable of the gabble Billy performed. And then she stiffened her lips. Her face right above his, the nostrils fluttered and the chin went up.

Billy shut his sore eyes, letting all the air out of his lungs.

 

A dew fell onto his lower lip. He licked the dry skin to feel the saltiness of her tear – the first thing to dabble his mouth in a long time.

“Oh,” a puff, “Athirst?” but before he could even think of nodding, she swung to face the men. “Get him water. Now!”

The second, the true Silver swiftly retreated. Without a second thought.

Bones stared after him, swallowing with difficulty. _Gates._

Her hand was sliding away from his chest. She gazed at the mattress above his shoulder, eyes completely vacant and glassy. She breathed through her nose and her chest heaved. He noticed it at last. She was clad in his white shirt. Sewn a little up the collar. Whiter that he actually remembered.

When her eyes found his, Billy recognised the rue. It was her. Veritably her. Galloway. _Alive._

“’m sorry,” she whispered under her breath, but he read her lips. “’m so sorry.”

He was ruptured. And he didn’t even know how he would staunch her tears if she burst. But there was a lone trace of the only tear she’d shed, shining on her cheek.

 

Bones’ hand stirred. He bent every effort to raise it an inch, then another one, striving to touch her shoulder, but the drying strings hanging from the ceiling swished and Silver stepped inside.

Galloway followed him with her eyes, and John placed a bucket full of water, with a cup floating on the surface, at Bones’ side.

“Let me help you up, mate,” Silver grasped him under the armpits, settling him seated. “Can’t say you’ve emaciated…”

When he was sure Billy fastened quite steadily, John turned to the bucket and shortly brought a cupful of water to Bones’ lips, but the man didn’t manage two sips.

“More,” nudged John, and Bones took a long pull.

Galloway, the object of his undivided attention, wetted the corner of her scarf in the bucket, leaning over him. She waited till he quenched the thirst and then her hand rose to his face. The water was cool and she just kept the cloth pressed to his forehead for a few seconds. Billy’s skin absorbed the reviving freshness.

Then she wiped the sand off and it scratched, but he didn’t move a muscle. For the second time in his life she was that close to him but only now he registered the colour of her eyes. They weren’t black. Just very brown. Her lashes were fairly long, but not thick: he believed her brows reserved that quality. He roamed her face and his astonishment to find her alive could contend with hers. For the girl, on the other hand, her living was comparatively trivial.  

Galloway scrupulously rubbed his nose and cheeks, utterly concentrated on his face, but the eyes divulging her mind was somewhere else.  She stirred the cloth in the bucket, the water spluttered.

“Will you change it?” her hand hung in limbo, head perking to John.

“It is not that you had to fuck this one up.”

The girl didn’t answer, patiently waiting for Silver to pick the pail up and leave. When he emptied the vessel outside, the wet cloth found Billy’s neck.

“Send for someone.”

“He won’t,” echoed Randall. The girl frowned deeper, jaws jumped. Billy could nearly hear the wheels in her head turning.

Galloway eyed Bones once again, gaining assurance he was conscious enough to grip what she was about to say.

“Don’t listen to whatever he has to tell you,” her whisper was so round and soothing. “I’ll have to go now. But I’ll be back tomorrow. First thing in the morning, all right?” Bones closed his eyes for a second, “’s  fine. ‘s gonna be fine.”

_Is it?_

“Come,” her hand touched his lower back as she prompted him to lie back down. “Rest.”

But as Billy was sinking onto the mattress, the wrinkles on her skirt smoothed out.

 

His eyes were closed, the temples throbbed and the blood roared in his ears. He was underwater again. The numbing weakness paralysed his hands as he tried to clench the fists and it almost hurt… She gently rubbed his forearm. Only half-willingly he unglued the lids. Silver was back and the water was back. Her thumb drew a couple of circles on his wrist before he could wrap his head around the reason of her ministrations.

The fist unclenched, letting go of the skirt. Carefully, she placed his palm onto his chest.

“I’ll come back in the morning,” she said louder, addressing Silver, he reckoned.

“Sure…”

The girl unintentionally pocked Billy in the ribs with her knee as she was standing up. The herbal scent evaporated.

“How is he?” a whisper from John.

“Irreceptive,” she lied.

“Then we’ll tell him tomorrow…”

“You’ll deliver him onto the ship.”

“Galloway…”

“You aren’t hiding him here.”

“We have to until…”

Billy assumed she must’ve given her answer in form of a gesture or a facial expression, since she remained silent.

“Jesus... Want me to walk you back?”

“No,” she cut and the muffled rustle of her skirt signalled her leaving.

Billy opened one eye a slit. _Go fucking walk her._

But Randall already jabbed Silver in the stomach with his crutch.

* * *

 

“We can’t bring him on the ship now.”

“In your opinion.”

“Flint is now trying his best to keep the shit in his hands and not let it leak through his fingers, if Billy…”

“I understand it,” she said clearly, trying to outpace John and shake him off.

“We have to make sure he knows how to act when he sees the crew. We gotta make sure he…”

_What would Gates do? Jesus, Galloway, think._

“…we need to keep him calm and steady…”

The girl skewed at the cook. She could’ve missed a fragment of his speech, but it was an easy task to restore the contents.

“And how exactly will you…” she scanned him from head to foot.”… Randall and a girl try to steady him?”

“I’ll see to it.”

“That’s what I fear,” Galloway waggled her head.

 

“It is the better option for him,” he dropped after her when they turned around the brothel’s corner.

 

 

Burrowed in her crib, the girl crashed onto the thin mattress. Clutching the blanket in her trembling fingers, she pulled it up to her chin and hugged her knees.

She stared ahead at the wall with a palm shadow dancing on the chipped paint.

Her mind was gradually recovering back to functioning and she could hear a bed creaking over the wall, accompanied by an a cappella of the carnal flurry.

The ‘ _I shouldn’t have left’_ forced her onto her feet at least five times that night, but she never went further than staring at the key in her hand, inches away from the lock. Dead sure sleep wouldn’t establish any relations with her that night, she quietly sat back down and reached for the sleeveless jacket.

And now there was nothing to stop the slowly flowing tears and the smile that relished of lunacy.

* * *

 

_“I’m still afraid we’ll be lacking supporters.”_

_“On the faith of your advice, I did write to Mr Faulkner, and he promised assistance.”_

_“I am pleased that you find my friend a partner to be trusted, but it is well-known he’s currently continuing in Scotland… to wind down the effects of the… atrocious blow of fortune that fell to the lot of his and his daughter. He can’t possibly…”_

_“Edward assured me he had sent letters to all the people we shall find present today…”  
_

_“He had.”_

_“Have you read it?”  
_

_“Yes.”_

_“So have I had the delight to. What is your favourite line?”_

_“It is hard for me to say…” falters McGraw, frowning._

_“Oh, mine is about the liberty. That stealing if from the thieves would castrate any hopes we set on introducing a new regime of colonial government in Nassau… The filigree: not to disclose the essence but channel the perception…”_

_James gives a nod, letting his eyes fall from Thomas’ face, and embodies a faint smile. However good the letters may be, there’s nothing in the world as influential as the man’s mere presence. His word is strong, but it begs for the support of his eyes. The sharp look that can put to shame and bring in line, praise and mince, cherish and infuse spirits wordlessly. What a luck it is to have such a figure campaigning for your initiative. What a blessing it would be to have him in the parlour this day. To let him parlay his eyes and unleash his word. And then even the most sceptic and doubtful would consider the idea to be proposed with ten times as much advertence than they initially planned. But he isn’t here._

_For a few seconds only the resonant amble of three pairs of feet rings in the hall as the Hamiltons and Lt McGraw walk to the parlour._

_“Last time he was there for three months, I believe we can expect him to be back in the nearest future…” Thomas adjusts his cuff, coming to a halt in front of the door. The subtle chirm catches their ears._

_“Last time was different,” whispers Miranda. Her palm, feather light, finds its place on her husband’s shoulder._

_“You are right. The girl must be completely heartsick.”_

_“So must he,” adds James before taking a deep breath. Thomas puts his hand on the handle._

_“Absolution. A clean slate for all those willing to accept it…”_

_James keeps shifting his gaze from Thomas to the guests. Monitoring the situation._

 

It was Edward’s face that lurked in the corner of his mind when he uttered, with a lour face, “Fire.” And the promised holy hell rained down upon the town.


	10. XIII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beating my own aeonic-editing record  
> the kudos make my day, thank you! (:

Randall looked at Silver with his eyes partly closed.

“Sooner or later you’ll have to release me. You have no choice. And the longer you delay, the more likely I might choose to take it personally.”

“I would say I have some choice…”

“He would say you don’t.”

The cook’s gaze redirected to Bones. _Billy_.

The man wielded boundless esteem of the crew. In a class by himself, fostered by the men, nurtured by the sea. Evolved into a pirate of integrity and convictions … of inches and mighty sinews. A mate of heart. A warrior of courage. A rigger of brilliance. A boatswain of impeccable credentials. He was the one who, precisely eight hundred and four days ago, scaled the mizzen to save Betsy (back then she was no bigger than Bones’ fist) and delivered her into the hands of her guardian. On the day in question, Billy earned the immortal appreciation of Randall’s.

“We like him too.”

A crop of acknowledgement lit up Billy’s face, but his eyes moved onto something that stirred behind Randall’s back. The cook screwed his head around.

 _Galloway._ He believed she was a woman of unruffled calm, and even her blaze of recently hadn’t debunked that reputation. He even missed her, apparently.

The girl held onto the flimsy wall of the shack. Her eyes a touch too dazed. She’d stepped out of the brothel right into the final hail of Flint’s fire.

 

Galloway slowly walked to the heart of the shed, like an inspector. The fist holding the dusted scarf alternatively clenching and relaxing.

“Morning,” she said in an even voice.

“Morning,” mirrored Randall. Billy nodded soberly, lowering his scorching regard that was only meant for John, who, in his turn, stood up to face the lady.

Gal considered Bones. He looked scarcely better than the day before, with the head thrown back, exposing amazingly long, dirty neck, and very much angered. He had indeed been listening to what Silver had to tell him. _Oh, Billy._

Either way, who did she think she was? Not Gates. Why would he heed _her_ words?

“Billy escaped the Scarborough,” said John, trying to gather her attention.  

“The Scarborough?” she questioned warily.

“They fished him out after the Andromache, tortured and then he escaped, but won’t tell us how...”

“What the hell is that?” the girl suddenly lost her voice to a husk. But then she squinted, frowning, and suddenly volumed up, “You have to be fucking kidding me…”

“I had to secure he wouldn’t…”

“And you chained him, you, bastard!” Galloway didn’t seem to give any notice to Billy as such, when she tousled to try the shackles. He would rather she hadn’t, for, unlike her essence, his feet shed thoroughly abominable smell. “Where’s the key?”

The ripply locks of her hair were slowly working free from the loose braid.

“What was I supposed to do?” coming up to her, John met a stern frown. “Did you have better ideas?”

“Had I known you would do this…” she was predisposed to no further dialogue whatsoever and sharply turned to Randall.

“And what exactly you would’ve proposed? All three of us combined would never outdo him…”

“ _Outdo him_ , Jesus…” she uttered in a singing voice and spun round to unveil growing annoyance. “Your brother fell overboard, was tortured and cast ashore, and you chain him?”

Billy glanced at Randall, who watched the girl with a moveless countenance. She did remind the cook of Gates. Essentially because he thought she was Gates. _She’s nice._

“Calm down,” Silver shielded half of her frame from Billy’s view, but she cocked her hips to one side, shifting her weight onto one foot, and Bones could clearly see her fold her arms.

“Thought you were a good envoy,” Galloway was shaking her head, “Where’s the key?”

“Listen, he is a bit harder to treat with, taking due account of what’s happened, if you will,” John made sure his whisper was too low for the ex-quartermaster to hear.

“I don’t think that is a pertinent move,” she responded in a whisper as well, but then added in outright,  
“Randall?”

 

Galloway lowered her eyes, expecting to hear the cook move, and found Billy staring at her. She tried to subdue the unknown buzz shooting through her bottom-up as she turned round following his nod. Randall looked at her sheepishly.

“Oh, for mercy’s sake,” she breathed out. “Anything else left to discuss?”

With a sigh that could blow away a desert, Silver moved.

“Flint ceased fire, they’re likely to be coming ashore anon,” he said, producing the key.

“Whatever he’s trying to achieve with Vane, the rate of collateral damage is incompatible with that,” the girl gave her scarf a shake and covered her hair.

“If you’re hoping I will relay this message, you’re wrong. Tell him yourself,” with the key finally in the shackles, John smirked at her. “You know where to find him on the beach.”

 

 _You, shit,_ she rolled her eyes after Silver and turned to Billy to help him up only to find herself welcomed by his chest. She had almost forgotten how big he was. Intimidating a touch it was to be towered over by a person of his height and width, partly because he was unsteady and could come down crushing her any second. Partly because he was breathing like a winded bull.

Her brow twitched.

 

“You’re alive,” Bones’ voice swept all the temper from the girl’s face to replace it with an amused grin. The thought had been running around his mind like a rabid squirrel, but he was equally surprised when the question found vocalisation.

“Is it so hard to believe?” Galloway smiled. _Thank God._

Bones shook his head, the corner of the mouth quirking, “Are you still with the crew?”

“I presume…” she shrugged, frowning.

“How?”

“You know, the level of your belief in me is overwhelming,” the girl was beaming at that point. There was a glint in her eyes, a wet one, and she pursed her lips in the smile purportedly taming the emotion. In the last ten seconds she’d smiled more that in the entire first day he’d met her. _A wondrous creature._ Oh, she _was_ glad to see him again.

“You are not under a patronage anymore,” he elucidated the nature of his query. 

She wasn’t under the patronage. Gates’ patronage. It took a second for the smile to fade away from her face. Bones could bet his expression had transformed as well. She dropped her eyes.

“Randall and I are on the same terms, I guess: a halfwit and a woman.”

“You understand you are talking about him in his presence?” Billy said quietly, blinking up at the cook.

“She does,” echoed the man, not particularly bothered.

“Will you go?” put Galloway detached, “to see your brothers?”

“Yeah,” he rebounded deafly, and she stepped away.

It was a fugitive thought – Gates’ raucous but soft laughter he longed to hear, but never would. The hairs on his forearms prickled.

 

“We like her.”

Bones wobbled to a stop. The girl was out already; she was no victim to exhaustion and might have forgotten Billy was, so she enjoyed the head start. Bones peered at Randall for a couple of seconds, hoping to check back, but the cook had nothing to add and went on with his string disentangling pursuit.

 

Galloway stood outside the storehouse. Waiting.  

She put her arms out when Billy stumbled on the threshold, but he shook her offer to bolster him off.

They walked in silence. The girl was half-pace ahead, thought taking due consideration of Billy’s laming self she was stepping slowly. Her wrists crossed behind her back. The bullet cut was healing well, he noted.

“Randall said they like you,” his thick voice made her slant her head.

“Did he?” Galloway hadn’t figured yet how to react and her face smacked of remoteness.

“Yeah,” _maybe it wasn’t the best conversational gambit after all._

“Well, I believe he does,” she answered calmly, but he could feel it warming. She looked at him, serene, and then there was a dimple on her cheek. “Some of the men on the crew treat me decently, very much so,” the girl reported. “Logan, Joji, Joshua, Decker… and that gentleman of years with a name I’m not ordained by fate to ever articulate right…”

“Niemantsverdriet?”

“Yes,” Galloway chuckled mildly. “Muldoon is more of a pest than an aggressor, but some of the crew by far could use a brain.”

“You find it complicated to consort with men of intelligence inferior to yours, don’t you?”

As innocuous as the question seemed to Billy, the girl’s glare suggested she took it much more seriously,  
“What do you mean?”

“I mean the fraternity is not considered a well-behaved community, and that might be tough…”

Vacancy shaded her brows for a second and she looked at him anew, eyes speaking of more disappointment (as if reading “ _I was so happy you got back and now you’re being a prick”_ ) than of annoyance. And while Billy was struggling to unravel how it all could translate to being a prick, she spoke up.

“I am stupid, so are you. So are all people, to some extent, greater or lesser. But some of us simply abuse the privilege of being allowed some bluntness. And it doesn’t really depend on the refinement status. The cretin-genius ratio here is perfectly the same as in bloody London. And if you’re accusing me of being contemptuous… Jesus, you’ve been away for what, a week, and have managed to condemn to oblivion the fact there’re cast-iron twits on your crew?”

The trenchant words slipping off her tongue got Billy a bit diverted. She scowled at him again. There was probably more to come, he could see it, and Bones simply blinked, refraining from a reply, giving the girl a moment to unburden herself.

Galloway hushed for a breath. The eyes softened.

“Mr Kelly, the carpenter of the ship,” she looked at Billy closely to make sure he was following. “The carpenter, a few days ago stole a knife from the galley. What for? To cut Black’s hammock and have him rip it up when he’d be down after watch. And that’s not only irresponsible because it is doubtlessly property damage; it is also inexplicable since a carpenter should have … tools? Wouldn’t those serve?” the waves of her sincere, unalloyed feelings somehow allayed his affliction. She was true. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Bones couldn’t say she was even if he wanted to. Though he would give Kelly’s deed the scandalousness rate ‘ _mediocre_ ’, she was more than entitled to call a portion of the pirates ‘twits’. When one of them had called her a whore first thing when she climbed aboard, another proposed to entomb her in the hold, and then few other retarded twats had a lengthy discussion about how _easy_ they thought she was – Billy prayed vocally she never heard or learnt of that. While they all had their reasons, it was hardly an excuse. Surely, she must have judgement and feelings about that. Still…

“You aren’t. But those hundred carat gits are part of the reason you’re still here. You could as well show some gratitude…”

Another glare and she looked ahead.

“I have.”

 

That was, in all likelihood, not the last swing of mood Billy was to witness. However, a positive note - her attitude was lulling him into a sense of security (to an extent against his will) and convincing him she wasn’t completely insane.

“Does anyone know you are not Gates’ child?”

“Yes, a few people.”

“A few?”

“Silver, Decker, Dufresne. All that I’m aware of.”

“And the others… don’t know who you are?”

“Do you?” not a hint of scoff.

“I’m closer than I used to be, Elizabeth.”

She snapped to full attention far faster than he expected. A glimmer of puzzlement dispelled the sobriety. _Gates must’ve told him._

“You are wanted,” Billy added, emulating her calmness.

“I know,” she frowned, “That’s why I’m here.”

“I mean it,” that time it was him to seek her consideration. “Heard your name on the Scarborough. It wasn’t Galloway, though, but I figured there aren’t many Faulkners roaming the Bahamas. Can only assume the matter is a bit more complex than you make of it.”

Aloof, she let her eyes linger on his, “Galloway is the middle name, lest you think…”

“I don’t think anything,” he suddenly was an inch from lashing out. And maybe she wasn’t as composed as she was trying, and succeeding, to appear. “Nothing but why the English are hounding you.”

“There are people who want to bring me back up for trial. But the Scarborough… They couldn’t know, then…”

Galloway twisted her hands behind her back.

“What did you do?” Billy swallowed.

“Nothing,” the girl tilted her head to look at him, but quickly turned away.

 

The two of them were nearing the core of the town, the number of people passing by doubled.

Bones could almost smell the sea already. The saltiness of breeze. Or it could’ve been the blood. The corpses and truncated bodies of those who had been left out by luck that morning were carried over, from one place to another.

The only thing she uttered in a dozen minutes was a warning for him not to step into a pile of horseshit. He was barefoot, after all.

There were likely more horizontal torsos than upright ones. But the clean-up was swift, and even though the pother was slowly dissolving, Billy was sure the girl was about to vanish in the crowd and get lost, and there wasn’t much he could do: he had already plucked her by the sleeve that day once, and she reacted a touch too sharply.

Anyway, he soon found her straying away from him, consciously or not, with her feet getting her closer to a corpse.

“Galloway,” he hailed her to be ignored. “Oh, fuck.”

He headed after the girl, coming up with her in a couple of long limp strides.

_Jesus._

They must’ve been newcomers, he could tell it by the garments. The garments he could make out, actually, for the bodies were fouled up. _She will get sick any moment now_.

Someone removed the boots off of one of the men, right in front of their eyes. Scavengers. And then his hat was off, revealing an unfashionable, by Billy’s standards, short blond tail.

“Galloway,” he whispered.

She suddenly had the face. The face Flint usually wore when he was sat at his table in the tent, maps sprawled before him, deciding on the moves.

_Oh, fuck it._

He put his hand on her shoulder and Galloway flinched. Oh, it irritated him. Right, her being a lady didn’t mean she was supposed to be squeamish plus she’d not yet shown any disgust to a thing. Not even his feet. But the whole construct of her equity towards the pirates was wrecked by that thinly-veiled overwrought angst. She managed to feign being considerate, but made it felt she was all ready to wrench herself out now. _Fretful like wind._ One way or another, Bones saw the issue, she wasn’t comfortable with a touch of a murderer, and he hurried to abort the motion, but only after he’d pulled her away from the dead bodies filling hers with consternation.

She didn’t resist.

Bones examined her features to ascertain she was all right, and oh, were his eyes playing tricks on him or did he really see a glimmer of smile on her puzzled face? _She still may be insane._ He rechecked, blinking a few times in a row, but there was no malicious joy.

And then he looked over his shoulder to see the bodies again.

* * *

 

“Thomas was my husband. I loved him and he loved me. But what he shared with you it was entirely something else. It's time you allowed yourself to accept that.”

“The only thing I am ashamed of is that I didn't do something to save him when we had the chance. That instead I listened to you.”  
Miranda was ceded to ravaging misery.

The water in her mouth was suddenly hard to swallow and the memory jogged was sinking her at sight.

She drew _The Meditations_ out from her satchel.

“Galloway has run away,” the book slid softly across the table. “You should’ve told her, she isn’t ten anymore.”

Mrs Barlow reckoned James would say something to that, but she left before he could.

 

The inn was silent.

Her own amble re-echoed in the frowsy hall rammed with sweet, fragrant smell of wine and sourness of grog mingling with less savoury odours.

 

Miranda stopped once she was outside, turned her face to the sun. But it wouldn’t vaporate the onerous burden.

The woman opened her eyes, letting her sight fall onto the moving street. And sighed.

 

Her life was a parlous journey. She appeared smallish next to a man slowly walking by her side. Watching her step, she was saying something, lips moving lazily. The brows knitted together, as usual. Hands behind her back. Secure.  

The man was watching her, a colossus looking down, frowning as well. And suddenly broke into a grin. Few seconds, and the girl glanced up and flashed a smile, amused. Cheeks dimpled and the wrinkle on the forehead smoothed out. Why couldn’t that halcyon moment last?

Lowering her gaze, she shook her head. Thank Heaven she didn’t look like what she had gone through.

Her black eyes found Miranda when it was his turn to speak. And she dashed forward.

* * *

 

“You said the Scarborough took you out.”

“I did.”

“Where is she? What port does she lie in?”

“Harbour island.”

“That’s not far…”

“It is not.”

“Were you there… while, I mean, John said they tor…”  
“I can only guess, but it’s unlikely they took me somewhere else.”

She simply nodded. There were things he weened she would ask: the nature of the torture, possibly. But she bit the inside of her lower lip and flicked the gaze to him.

“But you escaped.”

“Is it so hard to believe?”

Bones was looking straight ahead as they kept strolling, unreadable expression, but out of the corner of his eye he noticed her roll hers when she finally realised he was mocking her.

“Jesus.”

“As you said, people are stupid. And some of the guards I had there lacked hold capacity.”

Galloway shrugged affirmatively, to a degree, and after a moment of snug silence uttered in a guarded tone, “You’ve heard my name there. Maybe you’ve heard something else?”

“What’s the definition of ‘something else’?”  
“Well, does she always port there?”

“Boston, normally. You mean, why is a Navy ship is docked on thieves’ waters?”

“Yeah, and how many more hunters they are planning to turn into prey.”

“We are simultaneously both the hunters and the prey, by design, Galloway.”

Somehow, for no reason whatsoever, being addressed by name seemed to be a novel thing. A comforting unfamiliar thing. 

“And how did you get into the water?” she asked with prudent mildness.

Billy chuckled.

“You are no better at prying than Silver.”

“Much worse,” Galloway agreed without a struggle.

“I lost my footing.”

“Right,” she said with incuriousness extrinsic to a person who proved to be obstinate enough to lure a dagger from no other than Billy Bones whilst he was bent on evading it by all means. “It is solely… Well, the crew will want to know whether he had a direct hand in it. I mean Flint.”

“Are you afraid of him?”

“Is there a point?”

Billy’s jaw jumped and he translated his look from her onto the street. He would say there was, she, ostensibly, would say there wasn’t. But she didn’t, however, omit the fact the captain was a scheming ginger bastard, of that Bones was sure, for her fagged out eyes were speaking volumes. She also didn’t condone his sins, for there was tearless grief in her voice when she said, “Gates thought he had.”

They were generally on the same side of the fence, Galloway believed. Billy and her. Even when she thought she was abusing his firm benevolence, he still showed no condescending and talked to her as if she was a peer.

But she might have gone too far. Bones fell silent. Galloway knew she’d twisted the knife. She didn’t mean to, the sore was still running and only God knew what he felt. The girl was afraid to look at him, but, in the end, Gates was the first thing that connected them. Maybe the only one. He was her sore as well.

She was more relieved than surprised to see him gleam blandly at her.

“Did he give it to you?”

Her brows met again, and he elaborated beckoning to her shirt.

“Yes, _he_ did,” Galloway breathed out abruptly. “He thought I should have it,” and seeing Billy’s face incarnate ‘ _It’s so Gates’_ , she spiralled again, peering at the soil under her feet, but the voice cordial, “He gave me everything, I believe, even the books and the trinkets, but I’ve lost one of your volumes. Or, rather, I didn’t _lose_ it per se, but it was on the Walrus… and it is still there. It should be.”

“Did you finish it?”

“The book? Why, yes.”

“Not much to worry about then,” he heartened.

“I’ll bring the rest back, to the camp to you.”

“Is it not there?”

“No. Gates put me into the brothel and I hold all I have there…”  
“He did what?” she could’ve squeezed a lemon into his face to achieve the same expression.  
“He lodged me there, because it is safe. He said the wenches are always au fait with what’s going on in the town. What?” she darted her eyes at him, hearing him let out a chaff. “Au courant? I don’t remember how he put it, and I’ve been asking round…”

“You butcher it expertly,” his rich voice vibrated. She let her eyes repose on his face, the top of his forehead still red and irritated and she could’ve done better wiping the dirt off the right side of his jaw.

She shook her head at him, chuckling.

“I reckon it was…”

But her hand pressed against his stomach as she faltered. He looked down at first, and only then followed her sight. That motion could’ve meant anything. Wait. Don’t wait. Stop. Stay where you are. Goodbye? And he couldn’t put a question really, for she dashed forward and almost disappeared in a gaggle of people at the inn’s doors.

 

Bones didn’t think he’d seen the woman before, and she didn’t radiate any animosity whatsoever, and still the first impulse he had when she cupped Galloway’s face in her hands was to unhook her from the girl, just for the sake of it. But Galloway didn’t cower, and when the woman’s arms came round her shoulders, she hugged her back.

When they untwined, a few long seconds later, the girl took the lady’s flimsy hands in hers and, possibly, squeezed them, but Bones couldn’t see too good.

_There’s an inn, Hal. By the way._

There was a disagreement in the woman’s face, inquietude, but Gal was chirruping something, nodding, raising the hands up to her chest slowly.

_You must’ve been doubly sure she can take it._

And the woman’s face softened, even more so when Galloway snuggled into another embrace.

_Oh._

A proper hug would never be amiss for anyone.

Miranda closed her eyes, her fine fingers stroking the girl’s back.

‘ _Promise me’_ flew out her lips when she pulled back. A reciprocal pledge must’ve been requested, for the woman then mouthed, ‘ _I promise_.’

 

Only when the lady disappeared in the inn, the girl looked over her shoulder, at Billy.

 

She was within touch again, and the kerchief had slid down a bit, but she wouldn’t fix it. 

A minute later, the minute she had been thoroughly aware of his staring at her, plenty unsatisfied, she swallowed.

“It is Mrs Barlow.”

“So, you’re acquainted,” said Billy after a moment of dumbness.

“Yes, we met a few days ago.”

“I see.”

“She is a gentle soul.”

“Galloway,” he uttered warningly, raucously.

“Billy.”

Bones waggled his head and carried on hopping. He stopped only when her frame that’d been looming to his left vanished.

As sick as a parrot, he twisted his head to get a glimpse.

“Please,” there was too much determination for it to be a begging. “I am very conflicted. Did he?”

Her shoulders sank and the furrow deepened. The skin under her eyes was a darker shade than the rest of her face. As if it made a difference, killing a person over the gold and killing a person over an open betrayal. Killing one person or two, three, half a crew. A whole crew. _Why does it make a difference to you?_

She did understand little, and he couldn’t blame her.

“I don’t know, Galloway.”

It took a good few seconds for the depth of the terse sentence to register fully.  
The girl froze discombobulated, near-horrified. She could virtually live without the knowledge, but he…

“Why does it matter?”

“I don’t understand why.”

And she switched off again.


	11. XIV.

“Abigail did know me once. She might even recognize me. I would assume your plan would work best if she were cooperative in it, if she felt safe.”

“Galloway will be on the ship, and Abigail will feel safe. There’s no need for you to…”

“You don’t even know where Galloway is,” snapped Miranda composedly, suppressing the frustration expanding in her chest. “What makes you think she will be on your ship after you’ve betrayed her trust?”  
“She’s still on the islands, of that I’m sure. And she is probably hiding, and I know where it can be. And you seem too calm, so,” James arched an eyebrow.

Miranda depressed her eyes. Her throat moved before she spoke again.

“To make Abigail feel safe she should feel likewise. And how do you know that she does?” 

* * *

 

_Art of a pirate._

Galloway held it that the way one was introduced was pivotal.

_Billy is the quartermaster, he…_

He wasn’t the quartermaster anymore.

But for her it had shaped him, in an instant, and for her he would always be the one chosen by his men. In the matter of that first day on the ship, that first day almost by his side she learnt what it meant to be a quartermaster. It wasn’t about power and authority, it was all about responsibility. And he was a natural.

She would’ve recognised how much deference the crew had amassed for him, regardless of ever learning his status. The name would’ve been enough, for it was on everyone’s lips. They sought his advice, recognition, regard. His name was spilling over the tides, after he had succumbed to the unknown, and it seemed like they wouldn’t be falling into the nadir had it been anyone else. His name in Gates’ voice, conducive and reminiscent. His name in her head as she lay awake at night.

 

They watched him sit on a bin as they gathered round, excited, thrilled. Relieved. The bustle that’d reigned in the camp surrendered to reverent silence.  It was only his rugged, rich voice.

Galloway looked around. All eyes were on him. Finally she wasn’t solitary in her euphoria. Finally she saw some sort of long-yearned-for justice: the respect boarding almost religious commitment rendered to the deserving. It was decisively, by far the kindest thing she’d witnessed in the New World.

There wasn’t, in fact, a sliver of new knowledge for her to obtain, but she listened to him nevertheless.

Spellbound they all were to see a dead man updating them on his life, and Galloway was no different. And her eyes carried a glimpse of admiration she was blissfully unsuspicious of, a glimpse she would’ve tried to hide had she grasped it. All eyes were on him, yet had anyone been looking at her that moment, they would have undoubtedly noticed that tiny glory. As like as not.

 

She was good at disguising the emotions and surveying the way she came across to others: she was designed to be a lady and lacking those skills was not an option.

It was true, though, that when she solemnly entered the auspicious years of her maidenhood - the tender age when all the girls acquired the essential knowledge how to be a certain way, to be a Woman – she had no mother around to show her the ropes of critical importance. Yet she’d learnt it all to blossom into a refined young woman, and she could sit for hours with her legs crossed at ankles, keeping up a conversation on almost any topic from homemaking to the Fall of the Western Roman Empire, though nobody really wanted to discuss the latter with her, save for her father. Surely, there was a fraction of wilderness surviving in the girl, something people blamed on the exceedingly commanding influence of Mr Faulkner himself, and it was her _ease_. The composure of never treating herself too seriously and the nerve she manifested when someone treated her with disrespect. But the most feral thing was that she, _God forgive_ , didn’t fret over her aspect being (or not being) appreciated.

Her mother was a beauty, but the mirror never showed Galloway anything she would like, and she made peace with that. But the mirror never showed her an object of sight either, a notion her father entertained greatly, raising a girl to know her value when the whole world was against girls.

However, gradually, as she was drawing nearer and nearer to the equator and losing the touch with comprehending reality, she was losing the touch of constantly watching herself. Could be amid safety concerns – when there was always a cloud of lewd smoke following hard upon better not attract attention by acting as though she was still credited by the refined. Not that she could afford it.

Galloway let herself float free in that respect just a tiny bin. She hadn’t brushed her hair that day, on the scale of civilised London society values it would be a deed equal to eating a cockroach maybe. But she wasn’t there. And how liberating it was to scratch her nose, crinkling it and grimacing with satisfaction of having quenched the itch, and not being frowned upon…

The ground to be called _wild_ finally afforded.

Yes, she was good at disguising the emotions and surveying the way she came across to others, still. But her eyes, she could never really tame them. It did take some effort to read her look, but not too much. One could easily do so if one wanted to.

 

The girl was still scanning Bones now lured into a brisk conversation with Dufresne, the hindering mantis, when Joji, who hadn’t left her side since she’d shown up on the beach, stirred, turning to face the entrance of the tent.

 

Billy had already had one close-to-wholesome hug from Dufresne that day, but he was certainly not expecting a second one, let alone not one coming from the captain. A bit abusive it was, rough. Manly?

“It’s good to have you back again.”

Bones gave a single nod of his head. His brain must’ve bloated for it was putting too much pressure on his skull. The blue round eyes skimmed the captain as the man slowly swung round.

 

Galloway was just a silhouette hovering somewhere before Billy’s eyes, not too clear, but always within sight. And no one took notice of the girl, except for Joji, naturally, who stood as a watchdog above her, until Flint endowed her with sketchy attention. His green, narrowed eyes picked her out aptly.  Galloway was using one of the tent posts as a backrest, arms crossed in a defensive gesture, gaze moving slowly.

“You,” said James exactingly, cocking his head to the side.

They all had rolled their eyes at the captain, but only few mustered up to do so to his face. And she did belong to the party led by De Groot.

“Can we have a word?” his voice was hoarse and low, but before the girl could answer, Hornigold disrupted her processing the request.

“Captain.”

Constrainedly, Flint looked down and away from her.

“One hundred and seven men have been standing on this beach awaiting your return, waiting to complete the task to which we've all bound ourselves. Waiting. Perhaps now that you are here, we might at long last reclaim my fort.”

* * *

 

Billy walked out of the conference tent, De Groot and Silver casually tagging behind, both perplexed, but differently.

Dufresne was way ahead of the pack, having broken away a little: he was charged with preparing the men for the vote, and his disposition raised _a_ flag.

 

“Doing your job, or at least helping, is it out of consideration for you?” muttered De Groot in the cadenced voice.

Silver breathed out.

It was Galloway.

She was stirring something in a big pot, moving the ladle lazily. Randall was scurrying around, insofar as he could scurry, and she nodded continually to his observations, almost asleep on the feet.

“Didn’t you say I was quite inept in the kitchen settings?” retorted John.

“Just don’t touch the food.”

 

The girl looked into the cauldron, checking the boiling, when the accountant darted past cooks’ tent. She looked up, sucking her cheek in, but the brows seemed to have stayed in place and she frowned inertly.

 

Someone had to tell her about the upcoming vote. And considering she’d just ranged her eyes round, noticed Billy, instantly losing the lour, given the spoon to Randall and tripped on someone’s boot, walking to Bones, he could as well do that.

“I’m sorry, I completely forgot,” she began when there were still ten feet between them.

“Forgot what?”

“Your things, I’ll bring them now,” she licked her lower lip and untied the apron.  
“Right,” he squinted at her with a cloudy forehead. “There’s something I want to talk about…”

The girl threw her eyes up at Billy and hummed questioningly.

“Your confusion.”

Galloway blinked and wagged her head.

“Well, _now_ you are the confusion,” the wide-eyed stare.

Billy’s lips tightened in a barely visible smile, but he curbed it, “I mean Flint.”

“Oh,” her face cleared up.

“They’re bringing him up for vote. Captain Hornigold will call counsel tonight and submit himself as captain to his and Flint’s crews combined. And I just want to know if…”  
“If I can count on you, Mr Bones,” Hornigold slowed a few steps away from them and lifted the pipe to his face.

Billy sealed the lips and his jaw moved as he gulped down.

“I thought Mr Dufresne does the tally,” he said coolly.

“He does, I am just taking a personal interest here,” Ben’s measured voice was coated with slight hoarseness. “So, what do you say?”

Bones cast his eyes at the man again and put it bluntly: what cause he supported, “I have a captain.”

Hornigold smirked, shaking his head. He almost faced away when Billy’s word rose again.

“What, are you not going to ask Galloway?” not a pushback, not a mock, still somehow a little bit of both.

The girl almost squeaked. She was halfway to twitching him by the sleeve full force, and would’ve done it... Hornigold slowly spun back, measuring her with a fleer and then looked at Bones listlessly.

“Galloway?”

“Galloway is Mr Gates’ daughter,” provided Billy, raising his eyebrows and pointing at her. _If it is your fucking personal interest._ Her apron, one way or another, had ended up in his right hand and now hung in the air.

“She can be,” observed the captain blankly. “But Mr Gates is not here anymore. And I urge you to remember who is responsible for that.”

 

Billy stood gazing vacantly at something above her head. His jaw jumped.

“I’ll go bring the… I’ll be right back.”

He lowered his eyes. Galloway was fixed on his chest for a moment, but then moved, irresolutely raising her hand to his arm.  She gave it a vague rub.

* * *

 

Gal hastily shut the window and bent down to pick up the bundle of Bones’ stuff she’d wrapped into his jacket.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

The girl turned short to see Idelle. And before the wench had another go at her, Galloway let Billy’s things fall back on the mattress, saying, “They are dead.”

“What?”

“I’ve seen it. They are dead, Idelle,” her brows met in an unbelieving expression. Unbelieving she was lucky, at long last, even at that expense.

“No bloody way,” a triumphant little smile lit up the wench’s face, her brow etched up.

“Jesus, we exult because somebody is dead,” Galloway looked at the ceiling, breathing in deeply.

“That’s life, bird.”

There was something leaden in Idelle’s voice.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah… Why are you piling this shit up…?”

“I need to get it back. You’re lying, aren’t you?”

The wench inhaled: she’d brought it upon herself, “Yes, but I would rather have you out of it.”

“’s all right.” Galloway shook her head, blinking. “I am sorry.”

Idelle tiredly sank onto the now empty chair.

“No offense intended, bird.”

“I know,” cooed the girl. “Just…” she nodded and her friend nodded back. “I wanted to ask you something,” the girl swallowed uneasily. “Before I go.”

“Go ahead.”

“There’s a Walrus man here now: I’ve not seen him on the beach, and no one shites for so long.”

“Haven’t heard anything,” but her breath quickened.

“I don’t reckon anybody knows he’s here, but his absence will not stay unnoticed long. It’s just a bloody mess up there, and sooner or later he has to be back. Sooner is the preferred option.”

Idelle’s eyes were shifty, she clenched her fists.

 

“Oh, Lord,” she shrunk. “Close the door, will you?”

Gal obeyed.

“Listen to me,” Idelle said in a drowsy voice as the girl came up to her again. “You’ve never heard what I’m about to tell you, all right?” they just peered at each other. “Don’t tell anyone, you hear me?”

“I do,” the girl’s stomach was clenching.

“Jesus, it will come to life, but for now use your best lying, will you?”

A feeble ‘um-hum’.

 

Idelle put the back of her hand over her mouth.

Galloway wished she’d been advised to sit.

 

 

_“Lizzie,” he gently pulls her hand._

_“Yes.”_

_“They are selling tulips over there, look,” he points to his left, but she doesn’t follow. “Want one?”_

_“No, thank you,” she peeps._

_“Hey,” he pulls the girl’s hand again and she pulls his in return._

_He stops, and still she keeps walking only to hover at the distance of their stretched arms._

_“Lizzie.”_

_He gathers her back to him and crouches down to face her, “Hey.”_

_Her nose gets a gentle tweak and a smile graces Lizzie’s lips._

_“You want one?”_

_“Um-hum.”_

_“Come, wait here,” he picks her up by the middle and seats her on a narrow bench at a wall of stone, careful not to befoul the pale-pink dress._

_She looks at her shoes as her feet dangle. Her pointer finger swirls the fabric of the skirts._

_“Hey,” a voice rings louder than the street._

_The girl looks up._

_Suddenly there’s a ruckus and she flies down onto her feet._

_The girl is horrified to hear her own voice as she shrieks, “Charlie!”_

 

_Tears stream down her face and she keeps calling his name._

* * *

 

“And then we put this whole fucking mess behind us.”

Dufresne protruded his lower jaw and then closed his mouth.

He hung his head and her frame loomed into Billy’s view.

A big bluish ball in her hands that she held like a giant baby.

 

Without a warning the girl was haggard. Green as midlands grass, she barged through the barracks as if lost in the woods. The scarf lay on her shoulders, hugging them like a soft wave. _None the worse for a hug herself._

Galloway came up to him, suspiciously maintaining distance from Dufresne, and put on a fluid smile.

“Here you are,” she stretched her arms out and Bones simply held the clot between his two palms. 

“Thank you.” 

Another forced smile and he wondered how dared she martyr herself with it when her eyes were so void, but he uttered nothing – she inhaled deeply, “Mind it, something may fall out.”

“Thank you.”

“’s… not at all.”

The girl walked off with a nod and Dufresne could quit feigning she wasn’t there.

* * *

 

“Hey, Billy,” Jonas popped his head in at the tent’s door. “Got you the boots.”

The pirate stepped in, agitating the footwear he held above his shoulder. Bones reached out to grab the shoes and smiled. The fucking Navy had stripped him of the boots he’d had mended just recently. Not a tragic loss, but a significant one.

“Thank you,” Bones slipped his foot in.

“The cobbler said these would fit. She also said she was glad you’re back. Though she didn’t really know you’d been… away.”

“They fit,” he made a few sample steps.

“Perfect,” Jonas tipped his chin. “Randall says food’s ready, you coming?”

“Yeah...”

 

He tardily turned round to pick up a shirt. The canvas slatted and he knew he was alone again.

The cloth of the garment lazed in his hands as he was rubbing the fabric between his fingers, studying the barely visible stitches. Tight and precise.

He threw it on: the shirt both his and not his now. Just like the white one, which wasn’t his from its inception, in sober fact: he bought it of a ponderous Irish carpenter his second year on the island after he’d torn the previous (and, at that time, the only one) shirt in a battle. The Irishman was as fat as four pigs, and the shirt sat loose even on Billy, which left him wondering whether it dangled to over or below her knees. _Over, of course._ Jesus, the carpenter would’ve been so excited to learn what use his garment would see.

The belt slithered into the buckle and Bones tucked the shirt out a little.

 _Even the trousers._ Last time he’d seen them there was blood on it.

 

He sat back onto the mattress and dived his hand into the clutter of mended clothes to draw out the amulets. _Trinklets._ Weaving the strings in his fingers, he closed his eyes.

_He slowly comes up to the board, there is something he has to do, but he doesn’t remember. The moon is full and it spills a strip of flickering whitish light onto the coolness of the water._

_He lets his thought merge into the mesmerising scape._

_A pirate approaches him silently, something one doesn’t expect of a man of his measurements, age and state of knee. He stands near, gazes at the scenery and just breathes heavily._

_And before he goes away, his heavy palm lands on Billy’s shoulder with a dull pat..._

 

Billy pulled the strings over his head. His fingers lingered on the hanger as he adjusted it.

 

The bundle she’d brought wasn’t big, he didn’t expect it to be. Not too many possessions, not much need.

She’d brought back the book. He thumbed the thickness of pages glued thickly together, flipping through. _Rabelais_ , which meant it was _Bacon_ that hadn’t survived.

 

_“Jesus, son,” Gates rolls his eyes skywards._

_“Quit it,” Billy says to Hal and smiles at the seller, putting a coin into his palm._

_“There’re so many other things you could spend this on.”_

_“Like what?” the pirate wags his head, taking the purchase._

_Gates looks him in the eyes and arches one eyebrow with a mellow smirk, suddenly making Bones feel baby and silly. He knows exactly what he could spend it on, and Hal doesn’t need skew at the entrance of an establishment teeming with gaudy dresses. A few girls smile at Bones when he follows the quartermaster’s glance._

_“I’ll like it better,” he weighs the book in his hand._

_“Have it your way, son,” complies the older man. “What is it though?_

_“Rabelais,” he lets Gates rifle through the pages. “My sister loved it. Used to read it to me.”_

_Silence wields the air for a few minutes as they walk the main street of Port Royal._

_“Good thing you bought it,” finally utters Hal. “I don’t think I’ve read it, will definitely borrow.”_

_Billy chuckles._  


He stood up abruptly. Took the blue coat and shook it up. He´d been dying to put it on since he´d first unreeled the ball. It´d always been way too threadbare and he didn’t truly believe it could enjoy such scale of integrity.

He put his arm in the sleeve, then the other one. Pulled the collar up. And then he lowered his arms and one of the shoulders produced a wistful zip. _You, bastard._

He shimmered the coat off and quickly went to ascertain. It had indeed split at the seam.

Galloway had probably inadvertently taken it in.

“Fuck me gently,” he was shaking his head again as he folded the coat to hide it somewhere and never admit the crime to her.

* * *

 

“’s fish soup,” announced Randall pouring the broth into a bowl.

“Thanks, Randall,” Billy grinned at the cook. He did miss the fellow.

“Enjoy.”

 

“What, you don’t believe me?”

“I’m not stupid,” she said softly and Bones stopped.

“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying I know such things betta',” Joshua bumped his knee against hers. They sat in the tent, next to the chickens, the pirate was leaning towards her as he spoke and she, completely calm, looked him in the eyes. “You cannot finish anyone with a shot like that.”

“I saw it.”

“Just an injury.”

“He fell.”

“That's what happens when you get hurt, love.”

Galloway pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead.

“’m telling you. Joji did him. _I_ saw it.”

The girl faced away, running her fingers through the hair.

Joshua tapped her shoulder. His eyes met Billy’s and he shook his head.

Bones frowned deeper.

His attention shifted only when the soup bit him with its hotness: absentmindedly he let his thumb slip into the bowl.

 

“What is it?” he sucked the digit as he lowered himself on a bin next to Decker, who’d been observing the interaction as well, it seemed, but from a distance.

“She shot a man dead,” answered the coxswain before slurping his broth. “But, _for the record, officially_ , she did not.”

Billy’s cheeks hollowed and Decker went on, “Just don’t tell her that she did.”

“Why?”

“Cuz Joshua has been trying to make her think she didn’t for a half an hour now and…”

“No, I mean why she did it.”

Decker downed another spoonful.

“Ah, a few days ago Dufresne decided to take a merchant ship, they turned out to be much more experienced than he’d anticipated. One of ‘em almost chopped off Mr Craig’s arm,” he beckoned to the pirate now receiving his meal. “And she fired,” shrugged the steerer.

“You let her vanguard?” Bones almost jumped on his seat as if someone pricked him with a pin.

“Jesus, no,” Decker lifted his bugged eyes from the bowl. “She was on our ship. Takes an unerring aim, must be admitted.”

 

Joshua elbowed the girl playfully and chaffed. She nodded in response, and he rubbed her back, standing up.

He walked out of the open tent and past Bones, dropping an upset glance.

“I don’t know, it must’ve been a reflex,” continued the coxswain.

Galloway’s eyes roved around. There was alleviation in the familiar blackness. A hint of unmistakable fragility on her face.

“You gave her a gun?”

“As if you wouldn’t,” sneered Decker.

“How is she… blending in?” framed Bones unhurriedly, still observing the girl. He had to know what it meant. _We like her._ Did they like her the we-like-her-and-thus-we-won’t-dare-touch-her kind of way, or the we-like-her-because-she-doesn’t-put-up-a-fight-when-we-touch-her one. Tossing that question round would be counterproductive.

“Fine. I mean, she is not stupid,” Decker shrugged.

“No, she is not.”

“She’s sweet, actually,” the man pursed his lips. “We…”

“Oh, is she?” guffawed someone to Billy’s right and he turned to see Mr Brown. “And the way she yelled at Kelly? Now, she’s not pretty when she yells, lad,” he widened his eyes at Bones.

 _Pretty._ No, she was not.

“Pff, yelled, so?” the coxswain wiped his bowl with a piece of bread.

“The _lady_ ’s grumpy all the time. Look at her.”

“She’s not grumpy, she’s earnest.”

That was true. Levity, he wouldn’t affix that to her.

 _Pensive_?

“Ill-tempered, that’s what she is.”

“For fucks like you and Vincent she is so,” spat the pirate not looking at his crew.

Brown only heaved a peevish grunt and stirred his broth.

Billy, at long last, took a look at his own meal.

His spoon sank into the soup and he got the taste of it.

 

He squinted at Randall at first, swallowing, and then shifted his gaze to the girl and back. Surely, he had seen the cook tamper with the cookery, but he was easily not responsible for what Decker seemed to be having zest with.

Maybe _that_ was how she blazed herself a path in that mess. No one would argue, or dare argue, that Randall could cook. But for the first time in a rather long period Bones had something in his mouth that was made with an eye toward the fact it would be fed to people. 

It did have a taste. It tasted good. It tasted like she cared. No wonder she’d enchanted the coxswain with such ease.

 

“Vincent?” inquired Billy after his third spoon.

Decker didn’t answer straight away. He bent forward to stare at Brown, as if inviting him to elaborate, with a venomous quirk of his upper lip. Yet Brown avoided the look.

The rudder leaned back and breathed in deep.

Before opening his mouth (something Bones desiderated him to do) he checked if Galloway could hear them (how hadn’t he thought of it before) and clinked his tongue.

“Tried to force himself on her.”

The blood curdled.

 

Billy stifled the swelling frenzy as he neatly moved his head to scan the surroundings.

“Don’t be looking, he’s not here. He’s with Irving, watching the gold.”

However wickedly good the soup was, Bones had no appetite for it anymore. Good thing he had nothing in his mouth really, for what he heard next almost made him choke on his own saliva.

“The fucker lacks a finger now, and when you meet him, I’d advise you not to inquire about the origin of the dismemberment. Since it was your dagger. It also could’ve been in the nearest vicinity to his balls, though clothed, I pray.”

Brown rose to his feet and went off without a word. He handed Randall his empty bowl right when Joji came up to the girl. She swiftly got up.

Billy had to drag the recoil down with another spoonful of soup, for she cast her eyes on him for a second.

“Don’t mind him,” Decker set his plate at his feet. “Brown. No one really has a quarrel with her.”

Bones didn’t reply.

 

He knew it.

He’d been afraid they’d tear her to ribbons, and, it transpired, not in vain. What he hadn’t expected, though, was that she’d ribbon back.

“No one?”

“Yeah, you’re right. Dufresne.”

Well, it explained positively nothing.

“And what is that about?”

“He’s just been going off nut. Casting aspersions. Placing blame with her. Woman on a ship, bad luck. That old song. She did contradict him, but he threatens to expose her,” the man rolled his eyes. “But she’s holding well. Told me she’d plant a banana in his things,” Decker chuckled.

“Jesus.”

“Ah, it’s nothing.”

“Oh, you think so?”

“No one will touch her…”

“He can tell everyone she’s not Gates,” reasoned Billy, looking at the crew askance.

“What will it change?”

 

“How plausible was it really?” mused Decker after a long while. “Not at all. He never mentioned her, and suddenly she’s there and she’s here and they’re joined at the hip. The men know it, and if they don’t, the suspect it. But the material thing is: he told them she was his daughter, and she will be, for them, come what may. That’s how she was introduced.”

Billy fumbled the spoon.

* * *

 

“This one is no good for anything,” Galloway threw a potato into the peels. It was corroded with tiny eyes and she only had patience for the first ten.

“You give up too soon,” whooed Randall and hauled the vegetable back.

She looked at him for a second and then allowed herself stare ahead dumbly.   

“May I?” Billy heaved in her sight as he stepped over the threshold of the ‘land-galley'. As if there was a door.

“Yes,” said Randall, not looking up.

“I…um,” slow footed, Billy approached the girl. “Galloway,” he protruded the volume to her, squatting down, words jamming in his throat. “You can have it. I’ve read it hundreds of times,” he raised his brows for leverage and nodded, smiling.

The girl parted her lips and when her lacklustre eyes swam up to meet his, she glowed up.

She almost didn’t recognise him, washed, not sanded. The bristle stayed anyway.

The girl, in haste, put the knife away and wiped her hands on a towel hanging over her knee before taking the book.

“Thank you,” she dimpled up. He put the cuffs on his wrists. And the trinkets were dangling on his chest. 

“Anytime.”

 

He was only ten steps away from the tent when he realised why De Groot had suspiciously narrowed his eyes at the _Rabelais_ when Billy was on his way to gift it.

“She doesn’t speak French,” remarked the grey-haired pirate.

Billy’s face muscles slackened.

_Au courant._

_You, bastard._

De Groot shook his curly head.

 

Galloway peeled a strip off a next potato and froze abruptly. She confusedly peered at the book resting against her hip.

_What..?_

* * *

 

She put her hands on her lap as she stood up, stooping. Randall pussed Betsy and she came up to him, slowly, and rubbed her back against his shin, self-righteous little purrer. Galloway placed her palms on her hips and straightened her back, stretching up. Everything in her body creaked and she wondered how she’d missed the moment she turned eighty. Maybe it happened when she started gathering it that people around her were dying on a threateningly regular basis: something she believed only happened when you were half-dead yourself.

 

The sun forced her to shut one eye as she walked out of the tent. It was near the decline of the day and the camp immersed into an unexampled slack. The agitation had had its day it would seem, but the charge was still buzzing only to spill out into something unforeknown. The tally kept bouncing around and Silver lashed the crew.

She knew Muldoon had approached him. To ask to pull Logan out of the brothel.

Now the bald man sat with a bowl of broth in his hands. He was still unsuspicious of what news Silver would bring.

Oh, Galloway only hoped he’d tell them what she knew, for it was an utterly excruciating torture to be alone in the knowledge of such sort.  
But the girls would make something up.

And she’d have to die with the burden.

 

Galloway’s sad gaze flowed to the sea. On the bins on the very edge of the camp he sat, with his back to her. Just like that first day, but there was no Gates by his side.  

 

The sun pleasantly warmed her face as she looked at his sizeable frame and then she realised it.

It was him. Billy. She finally sobered from the woe to see it.

 

 

Unwilling to startle him she made a slight detour to approach Bones from the side. That proved a little too worthwhile, for he didn’t even seem to notice the girl.

“Gates said you love it.”

He tilted his chin to look at her. His blue eyes, not less lucid despite the absence of the war paint, round and brows rising.

He kept looking at her as though she were a ghost and she added, to ascertain he was awake, “I put sugar in it. Would you like it?”

Billy lowered his gaze to see a mug in her hand.

Her fingers were cold: they tangled in the hoop of the cup when Billy took it from her hands and their skins were connected for a few awkward seconds.

“Sorry.”

“’s fine,” she whispered.

“Thank you,” Billy shifted his look to study his own reflection in the surface of the scalding amber liquid.  

“May I?” out of the corner of his eye he could see her motion to the bin right next to him.

Without even looking at her he said, “Sure”.

She quietly sat down next to him.

 

“I know you say you’re all equal here, but…”

Billy swiftly turned to her, eyebrow rising in innocent heed.

On her open palm lay a small round scone. She looked at it with barefaced sadness, as if it was the last scone on the surface of the Earth, but then glanced at Billy, smiling blandly.

Her skin was a warm colour, the setting sun tinting it almost orange, and he could see the pupils of her eyes for the irises were brightened into deep, sweet brown. Her hands would be still cold, he was sure, but she sat next to him and her corporeality was no subject to doubt anymore. The hair, parted in the middle, was tucked by the ear on one side, dry and seeming light, for some of the hairs moved in the small wind.

He couldn’t argue, she did invite the eye. The eyes of the crew, for she was a woman and ipso facto magnetic. When one half of them were starved of the savour of carnal congress and the other half were bored stiff with what the brothel had to offer, for they knew all the stock from toes to tops.

_Pretty? No._

Not faintly.

When he saw her first, the word didn’t form in his mind. Neither did any other word, to be blunt. But she made him want to look at her again, for the second time. And then again.

There was a personable spell about her: her features soft and benign, but Billy saw the softly inscribed will. The frown, he realised, was almost always there, with some minor exceptions. Never really hostile, it generally was just a frown of barely disguised melancholy, with one of her brows sitting a bit lower and the skin folding in a wrinkle. And her eyes.

Her eyes were inviting. They encouraged one to find a motive and spur a conversation. Whatever topic. She was open for anything, it seemed. It didn’t work on Joji though, for some reason.

And she just looked at him, with the scone in her hand, a simple display of compassion. They both recognized what that little biscuit was. It wouldn’t replenish any loss, it lacked the power to console, as if there was anything to solace the turbulence. It wasn’t even her who’d made it, but the desire to comfort floated logically free and Galloway succumbed to it. _We are in deep shit, but here’s a scone._

She almost aborted the action, but he finally took it.

 

That evening her eyes were brimmed with redness, but not particularly bloodshot. Filmy, with a very soft gleam. The girl pulled her knees to her chest, hugging her legs, and her heels balanced on the edge of the bin. She stirred snuggly and looked at the water. The scone was there to distract Billy. For her, Billy was the distraction.

She had nothing to submit for discussion, not for the lack of issues, but for a wish to have a bittock of placation. Bones saw her sight wan as it fastened on the horizon, but it was unlikely she perceived the sea-scape.

All that time he’d been plastered across the sand she was there, and he dreaded to think what she’d witnessed. She was the same, the same young woman with a shock of near black hair, sitting next to him on the same beach, with the same orphaned expression.

But her skin on her forearms was decorated with tiny cuts and bigger bruises. She had laid his Gates to rest and survived the Walrus’ defeat. And that right hand, with nails trimmed and with the callus on the middle digit, no rings; that hand had amputated a man’s finger and pulled the trigger to take another one’s life. That was a dramatic shift, but how much more he was sure he simply couldn’t see. More bruises hiding beneath the clothes and the violent anguish hiding behind the restraint. _What happened to you?_

He breathed out, despairingly, and she twisted her head.

“I shouldn’t have brought it, should I?” she expounded, but not sadly.

Bones drew his eyes down onto the poor piece of bread he had crumbled a bit already, “Just fell to thinking.”

“Yeah,” she turned to the water again.

 

“It’s not about being equal anymore, is it?”

“Pardon me?”

“The vote. Randall is voting, you’re not. The terms aren’t the same.”

“I’m surprised you expected something, anything else but this. Truly,” she smiled.

Billy never really disliked _words_ before, but that one he was particularly mad at.

When one looked at a sunset that changed hue every two minutes, colouring the sky and the water a gradient of red and orange and pink, and the horizon suddenly seemed immense, one wouldn’t say ‘ _pretty_ ’.

“I reckon it will not be correct for me to say that, but the fact they think I’m not _something_ enough – in all likelihood just not _man_ enough – to vote saves me the trouble. Because I’m inclined to hold judgement on this matter that I am ... confused about,” she said in all honesty. “Anyway, I’ve got my requital,” Galloway beckoned to the biscuit.

“Thank you, again,” he nodded, smiling broadly. She didn’t know a smile could be so expansive. “The tea is jolly good.”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t it make more sense stealing tea from the English? It’d damnify much more, on an immaterial level…”

She narrowed one eye as she speculated, and if it hadn’t been for the cheeky etch of the corner of her mouth she would’ve passed for being serious.

“We’re not on the tea-trade route,” he accompanied.

Galloway pursed her lips and breathed out through her nose. 

It slowly began to wind. Although it was almost obvious she knew it well, he explained what the shipping lanes looked like. Not in an abridged version. She did listen to him all the same. Once the subject was exhausted he found himself drifting into another one, and another one, and another again, just skating across the surface. Nothing too profound, too deep, and she parried all the matters still too acute to tackle, smoothly withdrawing from any potentially disturbing topic, for his sake. He followed, for hers.

He couldn’t remember partaking in a conversation about shellfish since he was… never, probably. He would remember that part for shellfish was the only thing she showed complete lack of knowledge of that day. The thing he had the pleasure to brief her on.

And didn’t realise how fine distracting it really was until someone hailed Galloway and she was brought to leave his side.

The tea cooled down.

 


	12. XV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahoy  
> the last couple of months have been quite rough, so if you have any vine compilations that cured your depression, pls leave a link  
> thanks for the kudos <3

Galloway pressed her fingers to her brows.

She sorely needed sleep. Sink into a feather bed and never emerge on the surface, muffle up in a heavy, soft blanket and bury the face in a pillow, fresh, clean and white…

The girl wasn’t skinny and never really could make boast of a wasp waist, especially now, when the corsets went merrily out of the window. She wasn’t skinny, and was surprised to find how the two inches of her brothel mattress meant nothing and she still felt the floor with every single bone. The hammocks were barely better, when it was the ship deciding when you go from sitting to lying, and with the blind luck guiding you out – fluttering down gracefully was beyond belief incredible. At least Gal hadn’t yet got tangled in it and tumbled onto the deck head first. Like Muldoon.

_Will she sleep in the hammock?_

_Where else?_

_Hope they put something in it. Yes, they should. Some covers and a pillow, maybe a…_

_If she’s ever delivered._

Galloway turned her head, tentatively trying to make out the outline of the fort in the blackness of the sky. The peculiarity of Nassau – even well into the night it was still raising hell and having itself a ball. It was exactly the hour of all hands job in the inn and the absolute full house in the brothel. And around her there was a thick din, the tension almost palpable: the men were to make a choice, a relevant one… But she cared not one bit what they were to decide, would it be the gold, would it be Charlestown, would it be setting the town ablaze: unless someone put an end to the buzzing vanity, she would be willing to perform a massacre, kill them all in defence of her own person. Elephant feet of pain pressed onto her eyes and she covered her face again, the sick headache continuing unabated. 

Charlestown. Lord Ashe? Enforcing the law. _And what?_ Reconciliation. _Yeah, right._ God forbid the warship moored there; the colonials would make mincemeat of them all.

Hornigold was still worse. The bloody gold had proven itself too impracticable. It had already taken too much, and would take even more, than it would ever give. Oh, she would still love to see the old pirate eat, sleep and shit on the heap of the coins, for the fort – the only place that could guard against its loss – was teeming with…

“Are you all right?”

The girl hadn’t heard him approach.  Her hand slipped down her cheek as she opened her eyes.

“Um-hum,” the girl tilted her head to Bones, but ended up peering into his chest. It would take a while until she got used to where to direct her look. “Did you tell him about Winslow?” she whispered in a raspy voice.

“Yeah,” he breathed out, shifting next to her.

“And what?”

Billy simply gestured with his open palm. Flint stood not too far away, in front of her, arms crossed.

“You think Captain Hornigold will convince them?”  
Billy lowered his eyes at the girl, his head didn’t move.

Her face impenetrable and arms folded on her breast, but Bones could see the small movement of her skirt: she was agitating her knee, and the fingers of her hand were worrying the sleeve.

Monitoring her responses for some reason seemed more important than anyone else’s, but Billy, a dutiful boatswain, suddenly found it harder. Galloway was by far one of the most mentally alert people the crew had ever seen, but equally the most sensitive. Biting and trying to grow a thicker skin and finding it harder to pretend she wasn’t afraid of anything. For better or for worse, he realised he wasn’t the problem: everything was. Everything was a menace. Every touch, every word, every move, every look. He couldn’t really tell what to expect when he had first put set his foot on that land, let’s face it. 

But now she didn’t cower. At least she grasped he wasn’t a threat for her. Or he hoped she had.

Gal bent her head back.

Billy sized the venue with his eyes, “There is a chance.”

The girl’s eyes swam onto Flint as she nodded.

 

“There's only one item for consideration tonight...”

 

Galloway drooped her head.  
Theft, betrayal, lies, murder. She had witnessed it all, in quick succession, even in one day, to the best of her recollection.

In her periphery she could see the men, not too well, but enough to perceive they weren’t even a quarter as inspired as Hornigold wished them to be. At the end of the day they all knew who they were signing up for. They knew Flint, and half of them were much closer and much better acquainted with the grim side of the captain than old Ben himself. Not much preference and mood change was to be forecast. Captain Flint would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, but that wasn’t the troubling part. The troubling part was he wouldn’t disclose what he wanted.

Was it really a battle of an ickier character? Or of a stronger plan?

Galloway genuinely hoped it was the latter, and no one else but John Silver proved her right.

With every day and with every hour she spent ass to ass with Flint, she was sensing it wasn’t the thirst for the gold that was driving him. If that was so, he’d not be alone in that, for the girl didn’t give a flying fuck about the lost treasure.

And she was less of a loser than any other person present at the moment when Silver made appearance.

 

“Where the fuck have you been?” hissed Flint.

“A launch landed on the beach a short while ago. The news it brings is of the upmost importance.”

“More important than losing our ship to Captain Hornigold?”

“Yes.”

Billy felt her shift when the fabric of her shirt brushed against his arm. Bones looked down to see her, unsuspicious, eyeing something outside, and her mouth fell slightly open, revealing a tiny red sore her teeth caused. Billy followed her gaze.

 “What the fuck are they doing back?” Nicolas and Vincent stood at a distance, like two defaulters.  

Billy squinted at the men. The motherfucker did lack a bloody finger. _Right_. Bones had heard Howell had to conclude what the girl had started and actually cut it off, for she, understandably, hadn’t managed to do it for good. _Right_.

“Because there's no longer any gold to watch over. It's gone.”

Galloway shut her mouth. The echoing rattle of men hissing that last phrase embraced her and she briskly glanced at Flint before flying to Billy’s eyes for support.

He was seeking her reaction as well, and found particularly delicate abashment.  

His eyes swiftly roamed the men running hotter and he gritted his teeth.

“Out,” his hand lay on her shoulder that was further to him, so that she could see it coming. “Come.”

She moved as soon as his fingers encircled her arm.

* * *

 

“Do you think you could find eight men that would see things the same way?”

“I do.”

“Men who would be willing to betray the captain, assist us in subduing him, and deliver him to the Navy by force?”

“I do.”

“Then find them. We'll meet at the bluffs in an hour, then we move.”

Billy looked after Dufresne as the man rushed away. The last hope he had in the man was snaking away, rattling.

“So?” her unhurried voice came from behind.

“So?” Bones turned round. A wriggle of puzzlement of her brow and a fleeing smile that was hard to read – Galloway sat a few feet away, and as it had just been revealed, perfectly invisible for whoever approached them from the right.

“Your turn to speak,” the joining of the fingers under her chin was dissolving.

Billy dropped his eyes.

“I would appreciate a little hustle about that,” added Galloway not quite smirking. “You can go without preamble.”

“I did not escape,” he said bluntly. “They offered me ten pardons in exchange for Flint.”

“Well, that part I did get,” she pressed her head to a wooden wall and shut her eyes for a long moment.

Bones breathed out. He just studied her until she unglued the lids, and then turned away.

 

A floorboard creaked.

 “You let him divulge a secret in my presence, but you don’t offer me a pardon...”

“You need one?”

“No. Does it matter? I won’t be the judge of how fair it is... to me, but nonetheless you have to consider the fact that right now I see no reason not to read a report to Flint.”

Her attempt to liquefy the man as grave as a judge fell flat.  

The pirates were hollering themselves hoarse and she saw at least a couple of them bitching at one another.

“I don’t see how, but it is a trap, isn’t it?” speculated Galloway and placed her hands on the railing. The air was warm and almost visibly cinnamon.

“It seems,” he limited himself to that.

“I know you’re not going to do away with me to keep me silent, but if you think I’m some kind of Alexander the Great to figure it out...”

Bones flung his look at the girl, she peered back.

“You’re more of a Phillip II. Of Macedon, of course, not Spain,” he said after a scrutinising regard of her aspect.

A chuckle bubbled over Galloway’s lips.

 

“’s not happening,” let out Billy.

The girl bridled her short-lived amusement.

“Because it is the Navy?” she uttered cautiously.

“Beg you a pardon?”

“Because of what happened to you,” she risked looking up. “What brought you here.”

“No.”

_Gates._

She must’ve learned a thing or two thanks to Hal. Maybe even the things he’d rather stayed left out. But it was Gates...

“Flint,” she resumed.

“That too,” he breathed out uneasily.

“The pardons?”

“That too.”

 

The girl faded for a few minutes.

She leaned forward, with her fist supporting her chin, but the eyes were religiously examining the vegetation in front of them. The thoughts were swarming in her head and almost properly stinging.

 “And if it wasn’t Flint?” she shifted from foot to foot.

“Doesn’t make a difference.”

“Flint and pardons,” she rubbed her forehead. “Is it to save Flint? Understandable in many respects. But his plan is reconciliation, and it is some sort of a pardon, is it not? And you don’t want a pardon, but it cannot be the reason why you won’t go with the plan: you wouldn’t go with it whoever was concerned, even if it wasn’t Flint. If it was, say, Captain Hornigold, you’d still mess Dufresne up. Why? Is he bad ‘cause he wants a pardon? Hardly. Don’t think you would deny someone a thing they need simply because you don’t need it. Is it ‘cause he wants to get it despite the fact he’d have to turn someone in in the process? Yes. But you wouldn’t care if it was Hornigold, would you?” at that point Galloway just stared at Billy, lost. “Wait, does this matter? Is it because it comes from the Navy - those pardons - the men who tortured you? Do you not want to gratify their wish? Or maybe you want a pardon after all, but the one purchased through the suffering of a girl?”  
Bones didn’t know what question to answer. To be honest, he had forgotten a third part of it already, another third he merely couldn’t understand for the girl’s tirade was prohibitive to perception. She would speed up and then die down and there were notes of a stronger accent sneaking here and there as she was tangling herself in her own deliberation that she’d been trying to compose and construct, but that still denied all the attempts and just leaked away in an uncombed form.

And she was getting vexed.

“We’re rescuing her, Galloway. And if we succeed at that, it’s all of us who are pardoned.”

 

His face finally softened when he looked at her again and saw her progress to biting her thumbnail, “Will you assemble the crew?”

“Me?” she didn’t stop.

“Yeah.”

“They won’t listen to me.”

“You’ll see.”

* * *

 

Galloway found comfort in walking with Joji in silence. He was taking her by the arm, ensuring she wouldn’t stumble on something as they crossed a little patch of woods.

The men walking behind them moved almost in synch and their soft, rustling steps echoed in her head.

She saw.

 

They heaved in sight and Dufresne staggered. Not that it wasn’t the intention.

“What is this?”

“Have you ever been tortured?”

“What?”

“Suffered pain applied by men who saw you as less than a man? Saw you as an animal? 'Cause it isn't actually the pain they're inflicting that's the most frightening part of it. It isn't the fear of future pain.”

It jerked the chain that fastened the stone to her neck.

 

_He puts his hand on her face, covering her mouth to subdue her holler. But she doesn’t make a sound._

 

“It's the knowledge that even when the pain stops, even if they were to let you go, that they've changed you.”

 

_She feels him move. Nausea rising in her throat. It will stop, she knows._

_She has to wait. She has to endure it and it will be over. It will be all right, it will be all right, it will be all right..._

 

“That pain, that fear, that despair has made you someone else, someone you barely recognize. Against your will.”

 

_The voice of the guardian of the law is ringing in her ears like the clear sound of metal against glass, “The compliant claims she has been forced to engage in an intercourse by the accused. Against her will.”_

 

“Ten pardons? I would fight to the death to ensure not a single one of my brothers ever has to face what I faced.”

It got hard to breathe, the air wouldn’t leave her lungs.

She had to breathe. She couldn’t let them notice.

“...Right now, Mr Dufresne here has identified you men as the most likely to represent such a problem. Was he right?”

“Don't appreciate being fucked with, Billy. If you ain't got the balls to stand up to Flint, maybe you…”

There were a number of things Billy didn’t appreciate as well, and he made himself clear by delivering a measured out a punch to the man’s face. The blunt, rapid sound of it and her eyes fluttered. Another punch, and she took a step back, on a gut level.

“There will be no more dissent against Captain Flint. There will be no subversion of his plans. There will be nothing but adherence to the principal that we are none of us safe until we are all safe. Does anyone have a problem with that? Then be on your way.”

His mighty shoulders were heaving as he watched the splinter walk away.

Galloway exhaled. For at least her hands didn’t get shaky.

* * *

 

“You’re taking her with us. On the sail to Charlestown.”  
“Galloway?” Flint yanked an eyebrow.

“Yes.”  
“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Isn’t it quite dangerous for a person who’s trying to avoid any contact with the regal authorities?”

Billy mirrored the captain’s expression. Flint rolled his shoulders, his chin tipped as if someone lightly pushed it up.

“Mr Gates told me you were discommoded with her presence. This is not the impression I’ve gained anyway. If you are concerned for her safety, I shall inform you this sail serves her interests as good as it serves ours.”  
“Does it? She makes no secret of it: she doesn’t need a pardon.”

James depressed his eyes on his own reflection in the cup.

Gates would never leave Billy wondering. His premature death was the impediment. The boy did know nothing.

His awareness was restricted to what he’d seen of her, what she had told him – decidedly not much – and the subtle sense it all made when he glued the pieces of her remarks together. And what the crew thought of her. He knew not what had befallen her, but could tell it was a lot.  A lot was still happening and was going to happen, but her past also still belonged in the present.

However, what Billy Bones never lacked was understanding, and if she chose her past to stay out of his privity, he accepted it without reserve. She was too shielded, but it was for the better. She knew how to protect herself, he thought. _Unapologetically smart._

One can’t force another to share their pain. Even if that would provide _more_ understanding.

Might be he had all the understanding he needed. Might be he merely was too much of a gentleman to ask for more. She was alive, most importantly; arguably well, and right there, by his side, which meant she was always within sight and out of trouble. That was enough.

 

“Lord Ashe was a friend of mine, but I was linked by a much stronger bond with Mr Faulkner,” Flint’s voice sipped all silence, as low as it was. “Her father. One of the most well-versed law men in London. It must be mentioned, his views on the crown’s antipiracy policies, navally in general, were... _rare_ , much to Nassau’s luck. Thus I could even say he was a friend of this haven,” his finger, skimming the cup, stopped. “His views on many things were rare, and the world where between a forced, arranged marriage and a marriage for convenience there’s only a nod, that world is unpropitious for his kind. It’s easy to break a person who doesn’t know their worth. And it’s easy to wreck a person if you disclaim it,” Flint paused. There was no intention to make a foreboding out of that halt, but the repetitive twitch of his furrowed brows made Billy aware of his own pulse. “There’s a man in London, who thought he claimed the right to take advantage of Miss Faulkner. Violate her, strip her of chastity, and mar the name of her father. That decidedly was to be the loss of the Faulkners’ reputation, and that man proposed to mend it asking for her hand. He wanted to wed her, it must’ve been his design all along, but he somehow wanted to secure himself and his _prosperity_ for the position. If he couldn’t have her, no one would,” James had counted the crumbs on the table. Billy had committed the patter of the soil under his feet to memory. That was the sort of a telling that made any eye contact fraught for men.  “From anyone’s perspective, the marriage was the only viable way for everyone to walk out of it immaculate. But Mr Faulkner chose to look at it through his daughter’s eyes. He sued the rat, in a rather cold climate to do so, with the chances roughly equal. They would’ve taken it more seriously had she ended up dead. It took a lot, but Mr Faulkner managed to win the case. And just so that you know, nowadays in a rape case it is the victim, not the defendant, who is on trial. The rat’s plot was thwarted and the influence of his family went fluctuating the moment the judge gavelled.”

For once in Billy’s life Flint forewent his famous rhetoric and plainly sanded the young man raw.

But the captain looked up solely to see resolution in Bones’ eyes

“Now, however,” he carried on. “Mr Faulkner is dead. With such turn of events, that was the only way to skin the girl of any protection: legal, physical, moral. The people who defended her in court will never stand up for her again, for even the remains of the power the rat’s family wields is enough to threaten them. And without her father she is voiceless, his influence and esteem he held are with him in his grave. All they have to do now is find her and take her to court again. Make her confess the accusation was false, her father was a liar, make her confess she is a whore seeking attention. And she fled. She had to act because no one even considered listening to her. And she managed to make it from London to here on her _fucking_ own,” the last words he spat out. “That girl would rather die than yield.”

Bones blinked, giving a nod of his head. He parted his dry lips.

“And how is the sail not dangerous for her?” he uttered, his voice dense.

“It _is_ dangerous. Everything is, for us, for her. But if Lord Ashe allows the reconciliation a though, there’s a chance he could secure her a peaceful life in the colonies, protect her better than I can.”

The noise of the outer world was slowly gaining volume. A bell jar was lifting off and the sounds went leaking in.

“Then why wouldn’t she go there in the first place?”

“Captain?”

Almost with no delay both the men turned to see Muldoon at the entrance.

“Yes?”

“Word from the tavern. Miss Guthrie's asked for you.”  
Flint rose.

He looked at Bones one last time and left.

 

Billy hung his head, his jaws danced under the skin.  

 

_“What did you do?”_

_“Nothing.”_

 

_“... all the men who are to approach me will eventually get as close to me as you are now. Not necessarily trying to kill me.”_

_“Dying with the pride intact isn’t really an option.”_

 

He jumped to his feet and sharply turned round kicking the stool he’d sat upon full-force, almost launching it to space.

The heart was pounding in his chest.

_“Left everything behind, aye?”_

_“Discarded.”_

_“So you know straight away who deserves trust and who doesn’t?”_

_“I wish I did.”_

Bones just stood in the captain’s tent, staring into nothingness. He saw nothing but black. And her forearm in his hand, with a white line of the scar.

_“Who did it?”_

_“No one. A misadventure.”_

The fists clenched. The insides were shrinking. _The curious creature._

 

_“...it’s the only choice she has. She is a good person, son.”_

_“She is in for no joy, but if we manage to put even a little smile on that face – I’d be utterly glad…”_

 

_“She has no better place to be at but here, and you fucking know how good it is...”_

 

_“The fucker lacks a finger now...”_

 

_“Some of the men on the crew treat me decently, very much so.”_

 

He opened his mouth and breathed out.

Decency. Basic respect. Kindness.

 

_“... it doesn’t really depend on the refinement status. And if you’re accusing me of being contemptuous…”_

 

Everything was peril.

 

The lewd agitation of the streets, the boisterous and piecing laughter, girly; the clatter of bottles smashing, a full choir of voices, flickering dim lights and indispensably at least one body of a proudly legless armourer almost flying out of the tavern’s door into your direction. Bones walked to the beach and, as if flayed, felt Nassau with his meat. Suddenly too pungent and too dark, the way he beheld it his first time.

 

Galloway sat next to the fire, in a narrow circle of the crew eating their dinner. Her long fingers worried the corner of a page of the French book back and forth, but with enough care not to leave a visible fold. She might not speak French, but she advanced good five or ten pages, probably just figuring it out on the go.

He would’ve come up to help her, he was thinking about it, but it was the first time when he saw her so serene. Almost unbothered and almost safe – a deceptive perception, he knew it was. The sense of safety was gone and there was no corner to retreat where the pristine and the untouched could still be found. She turned the page.

 

 “’ey, Galloway,” Joshua elbowed the girl. She looked down on her arm and then up at the man, furrowing the brow. “What do you call that useless piece of skin on a cock?”

She hadn’t been listening to their conversation, neither had Billy really, but when the attention was gathered to the dining group it seeped in their minds that there was a fairly sophisticated joke contest taking place.

The girl pursed her lips in a motherly disenchantment and inclined her head to the side.

“A man,” squawked the pirate in between fits of hoarse laughter.

Her eyebrows jumped as she turned back to the book. Billy breathed in deep.

 

“Aye, aye, aye, there’s another wan,” said a crew sitting right in front of her, but Galloway didn’t even look up.

Her eyes didn’t move at all, though, fixed on one point on the page.

“If fecking is a pain in de arse, yer are doin’ it wrong.”

The men burst out laughing.

“Oh, come on, Gal,” Joshua reached for the book, but she dodged him. “Leave it, ‘ave fun.”

“Leave her alone,” put Decker, sitting down next to her.

“Nah, don’t!” interjected an elderly pirate. “Ye won’t like being alone…”

“Ah, fair point, mate,” said another one. “I thought I was alone ‘cuz no woman would ‘ave me… But then I met a mate with no arms…”

“No wonder ye ‘ad no woman. With that face the only chance to get laid you get is crawlin’ up a chicken’s aft and waitin’.”

She lost it for a second and a tight little smile flashed on her face.

“Ayeeeeee,” cheered a trio of voices.

She schooled her face back to neutrality, but it was too, extremely late.

“Come on, leave it,” Joshua held the book by the cover, but she hastily took his hands away from it.

“Stop.”

“Oh, come on, give us wan an’ we’ll feck off.”

“Yarr, I’m sure ye know one or two.”

“I don’t.”

“Oh, love, these eyes a’ telling me you do,” cooed Joshua, nudging Galloway, and she just shook her head.

“Oi will take your turns swabbin’ de deck if yer tell us wan,” ventured someone.

_They made her swab the deck. Brilliant._

While the screech of Billy’s teeth was filling his head, Galloway tilted her chin, considering.

That simple movement established an unprecedented silence. The wood was cracking in the fire.

“Once Augustus was touring his realm,” her soft voice soothed the unpolished quietness. The pirates, hearing the name of the emperor, got visibly concentrated. The old one leaned forward, scratching his beard. “And he came across a man who looked almost exactly like himself,” Galloway was stroking the edge of the book cover with her pointer, eyes fixed on the paper. “So he asked the man, intrigued, ‘Was your mother at one time in service at the palace?’” She glanced up for a moment. “And the man replied, ‘No, but my father was.’”

Joshua’s uncontrollable wheeze served as the background for the roaring laughter that soused the beach. Galloway lifted her eyes, a pure smile on her face. She won herself a whole sail without swabbing.

Billy just chuckled, lowering his head. That woman never failed to excite.

But as the pirates were chortling, a man sitting at Joshua’s other side just peered at the girl.

His eyes moved fast and he opened his mouth only to close it a second later.

Galloway stared back, worrying the brows…

And then the man whooped with joy and instantly doubled with laughter.

The rest of the circle went silent again, but only for a moment, for he suddenly exclaimed, “’is _father_ was!”

Bones simply closed his eyes, reconciling with the deafening sound engulfing him, for it proved much funnier than anything else said that evening. And he opened them again.

The girl was quivering, and not only because Joshua was dying by her side, half _displacing_ her. Her lips, tightened in a suppressed smile, trembled and her nostrils were flaring as she breathed. With all her might, it seemed, she avoided looking at the slow-thinker, but something overpowered her.

Galloway broke into a broad smile and the shaking in her shoulders grew stronger.

 

Her teeth sank into her lower lip as she was trying not to let a sound escape her mouth, and she finally covered her eyes with her hand.

 

The girl wasn’t a daredevil, and the mental derangement that he had sadly suspected her of a couple of times was nothing close to insanity. It was circumspect insubmission, so neatly woven into the clearest of sanities. Something one wouldn’t scent on the first glance.

Was it her? Or was it a thing that emerged from the process of healing? Was there any healing?

He always feared his new, different self made him unrecognizable in the eyes of his family. Was his self as qualitatively profoundly different from what he had used to be? Was her self?

Pain was nothing. It was simple, and it always had an end: a wound or death. But the corrosion would last even when the pain stopped.

William Manderly got motivated by the pain. Where there had been a puppy, now there was a wolf. Elizabeth Faulkner was a different creature. Paralyzed by the pressure, she still was reluctant to expose weakness. Animals do that out of fear to be expelled of the pack. She showed no pride neither, she wasn’t orgulous. She did what she had to to hold fast and to survive.

The girl was steadily making it down the circles of hell, bracing herself for the atrocities she was to meet. The atrocities Bones didn’t want her to meet, didn’t even want her to think about.

 

Galloway stood up and stepped over the trunk she’d been seating upon. Still laughing, she wiped the few tears under her eyes. Joshua hailed the girl, but she just waved her hand at him and slowly stepped away.

She was walking through the camp to the water leaving laugher in her wake, the trembling of her shoulders and the chucking she provoked from everyone she passed clued the adorable fun hadn’t worn out yet.

 

Billy didn’t want to think of what she must’ve been through, crossing the Atlantic absolutely alone; but he could imagine it well. He even found himself considering hopping on a ship to London – something that had crossed his mind, but never developed into a genuine intention or desire – and kill the very person who forced her to go through that madness with his bare hands.

_Whom would it serve?_

 

Billy Bones believed he lacked the skill to deliver on his good intentions. One thing he figured out: he had to think about the atrocities.

* * *

 

Galloway fanned herself with the book.

The sand hissed under the rolling, quiet waves.

Her eyes glided over the contour of the masts and taken-in sails. The surgeon had passed her a minute before, noting the ship looked like a cut out, completely black against the moon. She must’ve underestimated the man, but it came as a surprise he could appreciate that furtive beauty.  Someone’s soft amble rustled behind her again, but soon flattened. _Oh, I must be surrounded by connoisseurs of the fine._

 

When tears came to surface it invariably made her feel that coating, thick layer of calmness. Lulling and warm. And Galloway yielded to the temptation and yawned.

 

“You need to sleep sometimes, you know?”

The girl only nodded, covering her mouth with the book. Billy smiled, coming closer.

“How do you like it?” he chuckled pointing at Rabelais.

Galloway produced a small laugh and shrugged, lifting the volume up to her shoulder, “Doesn’t come naturally, absolutely not.”

She looked him in the eyes for a lasting second, and then weighed the book in her hand.

“What helps matters a tinge is that Randall is a proud owner of a cookbook in French.”  
“The one he stole from the Intrepid’s cook?”

“I don’t know. He mentioned loosing that one, and then alluded this one used to be the property of the ‘pulpy inn lady’,” she yanked the brows.

“May be the case.”

Galloway declined her head, agreeing and letting them slip into an awkward silence.

They stood dumbly, gazing at the water, as if mourning. At peace with the fact no thought would form in their heads. The background din of the crew was weak and, where they stood, it was so quiet that Bones though he could hear himself swallow.

“I’ve heard someone saw Dufresne and Captain Hornigold…” the indecision was hard to conquer.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she rearranged the book in her hands. “Don’t you think you conferred him a possibility, still? Even if you don’t lead him into this, he has the scheme already, the whole procedure is laid out in front of him and he is as likely to capture Flint and turn him in without you involved anyhow.”

“Don’t think he would take the plunge.”  
“Don’t underestimate the rage that he turns into...”

“Not once have I seen him enraged in the course of two years he’s been on the crew,” _oh, we are walking now_.

“You were away for that. He looked up to you, raised dust with the tail when you were around.”  
“It’s not my fault he can’t see past his parorchiality,” he spoke with a hint of asperity and bitterness and Galloway found nothing better to do but stare at her feet kicking the sand as she went. _Oh, you did that again._ It must’ve been beyond endurance to lose a once-trusted crew member like that.

“It doesn’t seem you liked him anyway.”

The girl glimpsed at his face to find him arching a brow at her.

“No,” she turned away to look straight, “I didn’t, to be honest.”

“That’s mutual, I reckon.”

She heard a tendril of subtle amusement in his voice and that time she saw him purse his lips in a smile.

“Indeed,” she responded in kind.

“’ve heard you affronted him.”

“That’s an overstatement. It was some constructive criticism.”

“Was it?”

“You doubt it?”

Bones chuckled. 

“A called him a “weakling”, in layman’s terms,” she admitted.

Billy squinted at the horizon before uttering, “I don’t think he is weak, but I’ve developed a conviction he finds you demeaning to his sense of self for you are much more valorous than we all expected.”

“If you need someone else’s weakness to be a background to reaffirm you strength, you aren’t strong at all,” she snarled, much more bitter about his last words than anything else. _Oh, you know you’re a rabbit, what is it all for?_ “I know I’m here on my own free will, but it’s a double edge sword, being among the sixty men of the crew – cater to them and act fragile to make them feel rough and they will make use of it; be _too valorous_ and they are emasculated,” she grumbled under her breath.

“Can imagine,” he said sympathetically, but she scowled at him, “You’re right, I don’t think I can imagine _that_.”

“I know you can imagine worse…” she said in an inaudible voice.

He opted to leave that unanswered, “Either way, I suspect you don’t really have time for all that empowering thing, do you?”

“Hmm?”  

“You have other things to see to, surviving here in a cook’s capacity.”  
Her laugher tinkled.  

“Surviving, yes. Half of the time I barely know what I’m doing.”  
“But you’re doing well,” the awkwardness pricked him, but she wouldn’t display any sign of sharing it.

“Yes, failing, but successfully,” she concluded.

“I don’t think I’ve thanked you for the clothes,” Billy bowed down a bit, seeking her eyes. Galloway looked at him smiling at just shook it off. “You work is impressive.”

“It pains me just a little that you find it uncanny if I’m good at something,” she grinned at the horizon.  
“It’s not uncanny, I am …” _What am I?_

“You don’t have to thank me, really. We are at one in knowing I didn’t, in earnest, do it … for you. I wasn’t … expecting you back,” she glanced up. He was still looking at her, not smiling, but somehow maintaining the expression so agreeable and cordial. _Maybe people could smile with their eyes_. “But I’m glad you’re alive.”

His breath came out in a soft, light chuckle. She didn’t have to push her civility too hard, but he said it like it was, “I’m glad you’re alive too.”

 

They walked on, telling the beads of the easy, but subtly inspiring conversation. Needless to say, Dufresne was never mentioned again. The chaste distance of a couple of feet remained between them, and Bones wouldn’t step even an inch closer, afraid to force her into the brim of the water.

 

They were on about the brothel’s doorman when she casually looked over her shoulder and stopped. Neither of them thought they would be that far from the camp.

And they unanimously turned back, unanimously and unsuspiciously speeding down.

 

The garrison morphed into an anthill, buzzing, busying, but the bustle was dulled down.

“Are they preparing for sea?”  
“Looks like it.”

“Doesn’t it mean that…” she paused mid-sentence and mid-step. And then picked up the pace.

Well-nigh breaking into run they sneaked trough the tents and came to a halt in front of the captain’s one.

 

Galloway and Billy exchanged a long look.

And the girl went in.

 

 

Her complexion was fair, and she turned out to be a bit shorter than Galloway when she stood up to greet her.

Abigail, he believed her name was Abigail.

She was wrapped up in a thick blanket – the source the rosiness of her cheeks, Mrs Barlow held her by the shoulders.

 

Miss Ashe kept scanning Galloway’s face in disbelief and then a smile adorned her tired face.


	13. XVI. p. 1.

Flint looked over his shoulder, flexing his jaw.

Abigail absentmindedly turned the page.

He was right. Galloway was indeed adding a measure of assurance. She would spend every waking hour she could afford by the lady’s side – or just keeping a weather eye on her – and it left its mark.

Abigail glanced around aimlessly. On the face of it.

But Flint knew there was an aim.

There hadn’t been a whisper of Galloway on the main deck since the previous mess, and the young lady silently and anxiously hoped for her arrival. But Gal didn’t make it.

And she didn’t make it in the afternoon.

She couldn’t be hiding – Abigail made no bones about it: however nonplussing it was for her, Galloway, con calma, ran errands on the same decks that hosted multiple scuffles and brawls an hour, where one abhorrently looking pirate tastefully threw up straight under the mizzen mast, and another one, with no less pestilential aspect, came to swabber it up, gushing with the most violent of the languages. The girl took all the abnormalities of the ship’s nature in stride and hazarded to saunter the exposed deck at night: Miss Ashe wouldn’t even imagine herself showing up on the open after the sundown, even chaperoned, let alone on a pirate ship. Capitan Vane’s demeanour didn’t manage to disabuse Abigail of the reason that the company of sea robbers was nothing if not insufferable for a young woman (and Captain Low only put a seal of approval on that opinion). But the girl _existed_ there. A fragile creature at the disposal of the plunderers, so easy to be taken advantage of. So easy to be challenged and maltreated. And she kept an upper hand. She was not unargued, but there was an ounce of relative stability to her presence. Galloway never mentioned what price it had come at. It couldn’t be through betraying her way though. Galloway smelled of home.

Gal was the first of the crew to approach the lady, and her stretched out hand adorned with long, slender fingers got imprinted in Abigail’s memory. Her voice soft and the accent suave, the welcoming expression assuasive, her mien congenial. 

And that girl whose company was the only thing Miss Ashe was whole-heartedly seeking on the ship created an ever-so painful pry that was taking Abigail’s heart out: why was she there, among the desperadoes, that girl that wasn’t kindred there at all? 

 _Was she one of them?_ Almost, and it twisted Abigail’s soul. Yes, she could only imagine how splendid the girl would look in a dress, yes, and she found the pants atrocious on a girl... but that impression lasted only a day, before she acknowledged with what ease Gal could overlap all the obstacles of the abovementioned decks without having to worry about the skirts. Yes, her shoes weren’t du jour, it was a rather distressed pair of buckled boots that probably used to belong to a smallish sailor one day. She also wore an immaculately clean white shirt that must’ve belonged to an elephant. And a worn belt securing a dagger. The girl had a dagger. Yes, Galloway was fully equipped to be a pirate, by Ashe’s standards, but she was not a pirate. She was a jarring contrast. If Miss Ashe believed Billy Bones was out of place on board a pirate ship, the girl’s presence created much firmer astonishment.

Into the bargain, Miss Ashe was forbidden to write a single word about the sweetest of the sailors in her journal, and the request of the captain’s that much savoured of command didn’t bring light onto neither who the girl was nor why she was on the ship, let alone why that was to be kept covered up. It only made the curiosity peak.

Understandably, Abigail wouldn’t dare ask the captain, Miranda merely let her know that Galloway’s reasons were Galloway’s confidence, and Galloway herself managed to circumvent such questions, her art of dodge so fine that Miss Ashe only realised that her asking stayed unanswered long after their conversation. Oh, was she a fine talker. Maybe it solely seemed that way: Vane’s vocabulary left much to be desired, and Mrs Hamilton, despite being quite copious in that aspect and full of motherliness in addition, was but a bit _too sympathetic_. Galloway wasn’t that. She was always there to lend her ear, and it didn’t feel contrived. With Galloway Miss Ashe wasn’t a victim anymore. With Miss Gates by her side Abigail forgot sometimes that she was on a pirate ship (especially with her back to the deck, facing the sea). She was back on the Good Fortune, with someone who reminded her of the friends she left back in London. _No_. Those people were a trifle dull in comparison (Abigail couldn’t blame them, she learnt the hard way some depths of character only come with certain experiences.) Galloway was educated, and funny, and witty, and even made Abigail laugh (something the lady was afraid she wouldn’t be able to perform in months to come). But she wasn’t like the girls Miss Ashe knew from London: those chaperoned, tendered, sheltered – kept in endearing ignorance about the world – ladies were so easily-amused and cosseted, and Galloway was very sober. Confiding in her seemed natural, if not wise.

 

But they hadn’t spoken in almost a day and upon hearing the six bells heralding the hour of the mess, Abigail slammed the book shut and rose to her feet. Miranda, standing up at her normal speed, looked almost slow motioned. Miss Ashe looked round and Joji inclined his head.

The young lady had to bow as she went down the companionway. She looked across the deck: her ultimate hope was to get a glimpse of Galloway flopping the chow into the bowls. Gal never failed to smile and pronounce a genuine excuse for not being able to entertain the lady due to a stack of work. Nevertheless, she would always come out to join Abigail, sooner or later, every time.  

And now there was no trace of her. That day she wasn’t even out of the cook room, and it was Randall handing out the food. Much to some of the crew’s unluck.

Abigail resignedly followed the captain and Mrs Barlow. She remembered Gal volunteering some information about the meals the crew were to enjoy that week, and strongly believed her words until she realised whatever was dribbling down Randall’s ladle was definitely not potato mash. Her nose twitched as yellowish slurry slimed onto her plate.  

“I beg you a pardon,” she righted herself and put on an engaging smile. “I was wondering, where is Miss Gates?”

Randall considered Abigail from under his eyebrows and forced the ladle back into the pot.

“Ill,” the cook stirred the cooking, putting ultimate faith it would amend it.

Abigail nodded, letting her chin and hope drop.

 

 

It tasted unpalatable, and Abigail estimated it demanded some supernatural ingenuity to make potatoes taste that bitter. She craned her neck to look at the one-legged magician.

The old man arranged a couple of taters on a flat pan and decorated the ensemble with piece of bread. In one swift motion, he drew a bottle of rum from under the table and poured a hearty amount into a cup that looked disconcertingly clean: there was one blinding fleck on the rim.

 _Ill_.

Could it be someone had done her wrong? Next to impossible: Abigail figured there were at least two pirates on the crew who’d try to kill her potential offender. And two more who would definitely succeed, but she hadn’t seen the men bury anyone, thus...

In peaks and valleys, Randall finally entrapped the crutch under his armpit and trudged to the closed door of the cook room.

A smooth hand covered Abigail’s as it rested on the table.

“Is everything alright?”

“Miss Gates,” Miss Ashe perused Mrs Barlow and then peeped at the captain. “Mr Randall there told me she was ill and I remain concerned if...”

Miranda pursed her lips, casting her eyes on the grey-haired figure disappearing into the darkness.

  

Something stirred behind the captain’s back.

Abigail didn’t make it out at first, but the green-clad bunk turned out to be the broad expanse of someone’s shoulders. The man straightened in his seat, his head moved an inch: a chiselled cheekbone and light-coated, long lashes came into focus.

She knew she wasn’t the only one to have taken notice of the girl’s absence. 

She’d seen him.

 

_Galloway’s head emerging from under the deck was a balm. The girl whipped up and flashed Miss Ashe a smile. At a brisk pace she was covering the distance between herself and her new friend and Abigail stood up, putting the book onto her chair._

_There was a dark-skinned man leaning onto the gunwale, who smiled at the girl, saying something Abigail didn’t catch due to the distance, and Galloway slowed down, chuckling a brief response. She never stopped, and her eyes went back onto Abigail when something whizzed down right before her nose. In a few seconds the whole length of a rope coiled into an unneat pile on the deck and Galloway slowly bent her neck back to see the shrouds and Billy’s big, wide frame, and Billy’s big, wide eyes._

_“Shit, I’m sorry,” as if the fault was his. Veritably, it was a green rigger’s, who didn’t even notice_ _the ‘spillage’. Bones’ foot reached down, but the girl scooched down to the rope. “Oh, will you? Please.”_

_With a deep frown of pure concentration Galloway flung the rope up to him... the following miscarried attempts were coming amid ringing curls of her laugher ensouling the deck of rascals.  She tried it all the conceivable ways and tested every possibility, but still wouldn’t succeed, much to the man’s – and her own - amusement. But when Bones saw her at attempt to climb the shrouds he barked her not to even dare, and the girl, rolling her eyes, went on flinging the damn rope until he finally managed to grasp the end of it._

_“Your Royal Highness could’ve facilitated it and climbed down to fetch it,” Galloway shielded her eyes from the sun._

_Abigail didn’t hear his answer, but it must’ve rivalled Galloway’s wit:  in response, the girl feigned she was about to tug on the rope, forcing him to clench it tighter. What Miss Ashe didn’t know was that the tiny mark on the girl’s neck served an evidence to the man’s outstanding artistic skills at throwing ropes._

_He smiled watching her walk away._

 

Abigail had seen him. Not once.

She’d cognized him. The man seemed to exert absolute control of the crew almost effortlessly and with no excess motions allotted tasks and performed his own. Abigail carried a subliminal and subtle feeling about his person, and truly wished she couldn’t say he was the right man in the right place, but the sole measurements of his arms and the light hand he had for sharpening cutlasses flagged he was unrivaled in all the aspects of the outlaw seafaring.

But that day, the day Abigail spent studying the deck, appeared to be quite troublesome for him. He wore a frown. She assumed it was something about the companionways.

And only now it occurred to her what was wrong with the companionways. Abigail wasn’t the only one feeling bereft.

 

Bones pricked his ears hoping the ladies’ words wouldn’t drown in the murmur of the mess. Surely, the crew would notice something was off with the girl in no time: some of the pirates were gagging on the potatoes, and rinsing it down with sourish tea didn’t really push it. Moreover, half them had been on the verge of throwing the morning porridge overboard, so it wasn’t a mindbender to figure out if one could add two and three (or multiply rather). It’s easy to get used to the good, and for some of them that sharp reminder of the past was eye-opening.

But Bones happened to be the first to notice: the first two mornings of the sail she had passed his hammock at five bells of the middle watch, a routine pattern of her night-time promenade. That morning she had not.

“Miss Gates is a bit under the weather. But she shall recover in a day or two and you will enjoy her company,” _oh boy_ was Miranda’s silky voice hard to hear.

“I don’t think she left the galley today.”

 _No, she never did._ All Bones had a chance to see were her bare heels peeking from under a greyish blanket... then Randall forced him out of the door, roily that Billy had the impertinence to bother her sleep.

“...even the strongest of us choose not to keep up appearances facing something they cannot avoid due to their nature.”

Billy’s mouth fell slightly open as he intensified his attention and efforts.

“Oh, is Galloway... unwell?”

“Yes, darling.”

Billy’s eyes rolled on their own accord and he close on plonked his spoon into the mash.

 _Well, that was light-shedding, wasn’t it?_ Bones broke off a piece of bread and put it in his mouth, growing visibly despondent.

* * *

 

Galloway would never permit herself to use the fresh water and she took a journey to the upper deck to fill a bucket with seawater. She had figured exactly when the majority of the crew were asleep and when Betsy doped Randall.

The girl skulked between the hammocks, coming into the moonlight flowing from the hatch, and then into the darkness, and then the moonlight again.  She had already done it last night - no ill effects, and no one noticed. Once on the main deck, she threw the vessel overboard and, breathing heavily, tugged the pail up.

Almost outbalanced she plodded back to the galley, trying to keep her footfall as indistinct as possible. Joshua was fully awake if someone farted, let alone sneezed at the far end of the deck.

She dropped onto her knees back in the cook room and retrieved the cloths from her chest, all whilst glorifying the galley door that not once creaked.

The blood was dissolving fast in the cold water.

 

Her stiffing fingers produced splashing sounds as she was washing the bloodied strips of fabric, the wood was cracking in the stove that Randall hadn’t put out for her, and, mesmerized by the small orange forks of flame her, the girl let her eyes drift closing.

If only she could crawl inside and warm herself. And survive, but not necessarily. _If only._

 

But Gal roused herself when she sensed nearing the verge of getting carried away, knowing she risked losing her fingers to frostbite, and hurried to finish the enterprise.  

Galloway placed the now clean pieces of cloth by the fire. They were to dry before long.

She quickly rose to her feet, and took the bail in her hand, but hardly has she picked the bucket off the floor when acute twig of pain slashed her lower stomach.

She hunched up, hissing and baring her teeth. Might be she’d suffered hypothermia at some point of her year-long journey, might be it was something else, but her womb was now aching like a devil, making her all set to cut it out of her body with Billy’s dagger.

But she gathered the remaining pieces of will and straightened up.

_Can I just die already?_

* * *

 

“Just make sure you tie it right.”

“Like this one, fine?”

“Yeah.”

“Aye,” the new rigger looked up at the mast and squished the end of the rope with his fingers.

Billy patted his shoulder and offered a reassuring smile.

Three bells.

_Way past Randall’s bedtime._

He could take chance. There was also still a chance she would be asleep as well, but he wouldn’t be there for talking...

 

It would even be better if she were asleep. More than one of his crewmates mentioned that catching her sleeping was considered as auspicial as seeing a cormorant or a mermaid. Not many were that lucky.

Galloway barely slept while sailing, spending four hours at most in her berth. And most of the time it was either a book or some sewing that stood in as entertaining.

Once he saw her with her eyes closed. However, she peered at him the instant he came three feet closer.

It would worry Bones much more hadn’t he been assured the girl was compensating for the sleep: she ate almost as much as Joji did. And boy did he eat.

Never a crumble left on the plate, and the enthusiasm she radiated...

 

_He’d missed the first evening mess on that sail, she must’ve missed it too. But when the night fell and Miss Ashe retreated for bed, Galloway was welcomed at the galley by Randall and a chicken leg. Sat in the companionway, elbows on the knees, biting down on the flesh, she was talking to Decker, nodded in agreement and chewed, eventually looking back at the chicken. At some point even wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, not losing the appeal of a lady._

_And then she laughed, covering her mouth with the hand holding the leg._

_It was hard to make her laugh, but having seen her in a transport of sheer mirth once it was challenging for some of the pirates not to try to elicit that vibrant sound again and again, and force it to clash with the usual guffaw of the ship. She needed it as much as they did, if not more._

_Bones’d missed the mess that evening for he didn’t feel like eating, but seeing her, devouring the food in the upmost tempting and mouth-watering manner, appearing so ample and open, he swallowed. Her lips, shiny from the fat dripping down the chicken, glistening in the light of a lone lantern, covered in grease and smile..._

 

He didn’t believe she’d eaten that day, or he hoped she hadn’t, with all due respect to Randall. The chance to find out presented itself unexpectedly.

With one last backward glance at the new rigger Bones turned round, and percieved what he’d been waiting to see in the companionway the whole day.

Yawning, she crawled onto the deck and in a soft, quiet and slow step headed for the board. If her heels hadn’t told him that, that scene did – she was alive.  

The bucket in her hand was pulling half of her creature to the ground. Bones picked up the pace.

Galloway emptied the vessel overboard. The water was reddish.

 

“Are you hurt?” his voice made her jump, almost letting go of the bucket. She sharply turned to him, eyes wide and frightened, brows raised, folding her arms around the pail.

“No,” Gal uttered slowly, more than just uncomfortable with him examining her for a wound or what not. “I am not.”

“You sure?” the note of concern stayed unnoticed as she spent all her thought on the fact she got busted.

“Yes,” the girl tied a rope to the handle and hauled the bucket down.

But she didn’t get to tug it up that time – Bones wouldn’t let her. He merely took the rope out of her hands, “May I?”

She glowered at him when the pail was placed on the gunwale.

“Thank you,” he heard her trying to force the disagreeability – insofar as she could be disagreeable – down, but there was spleen she couldn’t control. “And you? How is Jensen doing with the braces?”

“Oh, come on, tell me if you are wounded, I can help,” he breathed out. Galloway rinsed her hands. “I’ve been dealing with blood for years…”

“So have I.”

It numbed him for a second.

Maybe even a minute.

 

Galloway emptied the bucked for the second time.

Her pale, stiff fingers fumbled the rim; she avoided his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he finally articulated in a sober voice.

“Don’t be,” all the emotion faded into exhaustion as she looked at his worried face.

“If you need any help… anything, just ask, all right?” he raised the brows and there they were – the round blue eyes, the epitome of kind and good grace.

“Thank you,” Galloway gasped out. “I _am_ fine.”

She rubbed her eye. She hadn’t slept.

Bones reached for the pail, but the girl lay hold of it faster, “I said - ‘s fine.”

“Just let me help,” his clement smile was to appeal to her, but she was impenetrable.

“No,” she said bluntly. “There’s nothing to help with.”

The girl sank her eyes. She felt a cornered simpleton displacing her frustration onto the last person deserving her cuntocalypse. But the roil got rising afresh when she looked up, “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”  
“Don’t pity me,” she gazed hard at him. “I hate seeing it in your eyes.”

“Galloway,” Billy leaned in. “It’s not...” but he broke off abruptly as she shut her eyes.

 

It was a few seconds before she finally breathed out when the pain gave her a respite.

“I’m sorry,” she uttered weakly and shook her head. “I didn’t mean to be rude.”

She pulled the bucked down, inducing unwished for expression of annoyance on Bones’ face.

He smacked his lips and breathed out through the nose as she walked away, “You are a mule, you know it?”

She stalled for a second, the dark cover of her hair moved and she looked at him, narrowing the corners of her eyes.

Her nostrils quirked.

_Oh, you bastard._

But Galloway just turned away and chuckled perkily, “Dormouse.”

 

She moved markedly faster with the bucket empty.

Bones slewed round and leaned on the gunwale.  The sun was making it up out of the horizon, and he gritted his teeth, the jaw tensed.

* * *

 

The following morning many people got able to thoroughly appreciate Galloway. Still seedy, she served the meal, taken aback by the number of men that smiled at her.

“You fine, love?”         

“Yeah,” she pulled a strained smile and plumped porridge into a bowl.

“’ve heard you’ve been unwell…”

“I’m feeling better now, thank you,” she handed the food to the young pirate, but he didn’t display any disposition for leaving.

“I have this potion I got in Port Royal…”  
“Um-hmm,” she reached for another bowl, a rather long line of sailors lurking in her periphery.

“I’m off watch at seven bells tonight, I could treat you…” he smiled wide. “That is the formula of feeling even better, I’m telling you…”

“Oh, thank you, but I don’t…”

“I’m nothing indecent, I’m…”

Galloway flicked a glance at him _. Why was indecency mentioned at all then?_

“No, thank you.”

“Oi, listen…”

“She said no. I don’t think Miss Gates means a negotiation.”

That was the voice of someone the young pirate didn’t want to wrangle with indeed. His brow arched.

“Thankee,” he hefted the bowl.

Galloway flashed him a second-lasting smile.

 

“Hope you don’t get any ideas that that’d earn you seconds.”

Bones smiled, shaking his head.

She landed an absolutely regulated flop of porridge into a bowl and offered it to the man.

“Thank you,” she relented, but didn’t look up.

“Don’t mention it.”

Galloway nodded.

 

He apathetically placed the food onto the table and sat down when a bright pop of colour revived the mess. Abigail, in her pale-blue dress, peered over the cook and her face got wreathed in smiles.

* * *

 

“It is such a delight to see you again,” Abigail drooped her eyes, but then looked at Galloway. They found their scrap of shade on the deck, in a corner estranged from all the sailing exercises. 

“The pleasure is mine,” Galloway rested her back against the board. “Hope you are in enjoyment of good health now.”

“Yes, everything is all right,” Miss Ashe nodded. “And you… All goes well with you?”

The girl just smiled. She did that sometimes. Like him. The big man always smiled that comforting smile at his crewmates. And patted them encouragingly. But Galloway’s spirit seemed more wistful. Unruffled gloom lazed permeating in her eyes, even when she smiled. But even that way she excited admiring envy. Her olive, clear skin was sunburned just a tiny bit, giving her a sapid, subtle colour on the nose and cheekbones.  Rather dark, purplish shadows lay under her eyes, black, not insanely big, but ravishing. Her lips, chapped and dry, formed enchanting smiles. She was full of colour, and even though it tarnished with every passing day, it didn’t strip her aspect of fragrancy. Many people told Abigail she had beautiful eyes, intelligent eyes, but till the day she met Galloway she never believed that eyes could indicate how much intelligence resided in someone’s head...

Abigail sank into her thoughts and the girl examined her features before looking away. It happened sometimes.

The deck seemed less shambolic than ever that day. Everything moved slinky, especially the honourable procession of riggers, preceded by Bones – a mother goose to his goslings.

_“She said no.”_

_Jesus, hope there’s no protection tax. Of course there isn’t. He wouldn’t... He’s not that... Most likely he doesn’t even remember it already. For all one knows if he ever noticed. Sure. He didn’t lay emphasis on it. Why would he...? For the better._

Abigail sank into her thoughts letting Galloway fall into her own, but a shuddering sigh jolted the girl back to present.

“Is everything all right?”

Seeing Abigail tear up, Galloway plummeted into frantic dismay.

“Do you want me to make you tea?” if anything was consoling, it was tea, Gal believed.

“My mother always said she was the happiest woman on earth because her man loved her more than he loved himself,” she smiled faintly. “Don’t think that is ever to happen again, and the best women now can hope for is a man who would love them as much as he loves himself. But some men don’t ever cherish their women at least as much as they do their savings. Or the horses they bet upon. And it would be a half of the truth if I said those men disrespected and neglected only their women. They maul and slough all the women. They debase and dishonour each other. And some women do the same. Those in power bedevil openly, those not – torment from the within and...”

Galloway almost frowned herself to blindness. Her heart subscribed under every word the lady enunciates with strong beats, but she’d rather those words hadn’t been escaping _that lady’s_ lips...

“There are good people there, don’t get me wrong. Men and women. But...  Would you say it is dim-witted of me to be surprised to find _these man_ might not lack the skill of caring?”

Galloway struggled to get any words out. Miss Ashe just stared at the water, adrift.

“No,” measured the girl. “No, I would not. That vision is not absurd,” she arched an eyebrow. It was not absurd to reckon Nassau hosted the most arrant scum of the earth – not a notion to altogether agree with, but not without a rationale for existence.

“Absurd,” echoed Abigail and added sadly, “This is inner-circle hell.”

Galloway depressed her eyes. The blood dewing the floor as the Andromache fired. The portholes of the Man o’ war. Randall without a leg. Her own hand jerking as the bullet left the pistol. Gates, motionless. Vincent’s hand grabbing lower. Logan.

“Will you differ?” asked Abigail worriedly, seeing Galloway grow pensive.

“No,” she shook her head. “This is.”

“How do you have no issue with it?”

“Why, I do...”

“Then why are you here?”

“ _Hell_ is not here,” Galloway looked at the lady. “ _Here_ is not hell. It’s everywhere, but you either get to see it or you never do. As luck would have it.”

“They create it,” she said bitterly. “There’s no peace, no joy. There’s only fear, and death. Isn’t it nothing but a reign of terror, Galloway? Isn’t there a constant fear of the future, of the future that may never be there for you. There’s no escaping it, is there? Only was to survive is be an animal... in this world, where’s no law, no mercy, the freedom that Captain Vane told me about is ephemeral and..,” she broke off on an inhale and peered at the girl.

“Animals…” smiled Gal. “Because they kill for prey, for asserting the dominance over their territory, for their own lives? All men are animals and there’s nothing unnatural about it. Men create terror everywhere. _You_ stated it a moment ago. But just because these men chose to have their lives their way – for some, the majority of them, there was no choice, but still – and openly turn against the regime they don’t fit in with, again, mostly against their will; the regime they were forced out of… No one would like that, no regime. These men oppose it and get what only stands to reason – backfire, truth tweaked and stories about them so far-fetched that the whole world ceases to see them as men. They kill people. So do the English, so do the Spanish. People die in Nassau, but they also die in the slums and gutters of London. Some colonies established are built on blood-soaked soil. But this is the truth that we know not of…”

Abigail pursed her lips. She turned round and skimmed the deck. Galloway followed. 

“There’s no good or bad,” she whispered. “There are needs and causes, and everyone protects their own.”

The vanguard were grinding their cutlasses and daggers on the aft deck, and judging by Joshua’s hand gestures, discussing woman’s forms. _Fine_. Decker at the helm caught their eyes and waved, but quickly stopped once realised whom he was waving at. Billy was still nursing his henhouse, and boy was he irritated that one of the riggers kept stealing glances at Abigail.

Galloway smiled.

“Then I would say it’s dim witted of me to be afraid to even think that some of those men are truly content with the way they are. Just because it doesn’t fit with the order of thing I’m used to... The happiness _I_ will never understand,” said Abigail, still trying to ignore a flare of apprehension. “But I see you are not happy.”

_So it shows?_

“I won’t make further attempts to extort from you the reason of your being here, it’s not seemly,” Abigail carried on. “But I conceit that you, as well as the captain’s friend, are here to solace my journey back home. As for her, I know she calls the Island home now, but you? Do you have a home there? If not, I must urge you to disembark with me the day we arrive at Charlestown, and pray an aid of my father. He’s a decent, good man. He will seek a way to help you if you find yourself in a quandary or… Please, I wish it.”

“I have a home in Nassau, Abigail,” _a dingy brothel crib, still..._ “But I must thank you for your kindness. I wish I could repay you…”

“Then why you? Why are you sailing with us...?”

“I’m the funniest one,” uttered Galloway with no tint of entertainment.

* * *

 

“He says it was a siren,” Silver shrugged, peeling a strip of potato skin off.

“Oh God, John. Ask a stupid person and you get a stupid answer,” Galloway rolled her eyes.

“I’ll give you that, but there has to be an explanation.”

“Rum.”

“He’s as intolerant as a nun to a cock...”

“Only proves my point,” she cut him off.

“He passes out after a sniff...”

“So, do you really suppose someone went through the trouble of preparing it all to play him?”

“Well, these fuckers are quite instantaneous.”

The girl chortled, salting the water. A familiar amble thunked clearer and clearer. No need to bet.

“Flint asked you to bring Miss Ashe some fruit…” Billy halted in the doorframe.

The girl stood up, no reason to question the request, but Bones turned out to be piercing Silver. And Silver kept peeling potatoes right by her side.

“Me?” he put the knife to his chest.

“Galloway,” Billy beckoned in the girl’s direction, hanging on a timber above him.

John grimaced, craning his neck.

“You have to be kidding me...” she breathed out.

“The hell are you staring at me for then?” Silver wrinkled his nose.

“She told me she didn’t like the way I look at her, so...”

“And you once told me the more I speak the less you understand, but here you are, rejoicing at the sound of my angelic voice,” she crossed her arms under her chest. John spluttered with laughter, seeing Bones draw his eyes on her.

“Right,” he uttered calmly.

Galloway gawped at him, the corners of her mouth curving innocently.

“Fruit,” said Billy, grinning.

He stepped back, bowing a little, and went off.

“He’s a sneaky little bastard, isn’t he?” he heard Silver chuckle.

“He is...”

* * *

 

“Shite,” she blurted out and spun round again. “Oh, Randall, I did implore you not to touch the bucket, didn’t I?” she sued into nothingness. The anger refused to drain away. Jesus, she was near white heat.

If it wasn’t challenging enough, the girl was suddenly left without a vital equipment.

_Just don’t cry, all right?_

The eyes stung treacherously. That seemed a proper outlet.

 

Galloway pushed the door open, but it stopped mid-way.

She tried anew, and something debarred passage again.

Cautiously Galloway poked her head through the crack, and much to her relief there was no person.

There was the bucket of water, full.

* * *

 

She kept the door ajar.

Billy had to go to bed soon: she wouldn’t venture to show up on the deck knowing he could be roaming it. That thing alone was too courteous that it brought her to the brink of tears, and she feared he’d strive for further assistance. She could manage it herself. She was fine. It felt stupid to sit in the dark and wait for him to come down and sink into his hammock and then fall asleep, but she did.

 

He locked his hands on his nape at three bells, and having learned the sleeping patterns of all the crew, Galloway tiptoed out of the galley half an hour later.

 

That was a recipe for disaster. He trimmed off the distance in no time at all and Galloway shut her eyes, ready to die of embarrassment.

“Really?” he took the bail handle from her hand and strode forward, leaving her standing like a dummy.

 

Without a strain, he flew up the companion way and up to the board. Galloway staggered behind.

And that inhibiting feeling in his back was teaching him how well-meant efforts could lead to unwanted effects. Bones stole a glance at the girl.

She stood beside him, lifeless, and looked at the darkness of the water. He’d rather she hated him. For it was unbearable to see her so deranged, and to know he was the one who so brutally cramped her brittleness.

Billy emptied the pail.

It felt as good as standing there in just her skin, the desire to melt into the deck burned her alive.

“Would it ease you if I said I had a sister?” he worried the bail.

“Should it?”

 _Yeah. Right._ Bones averted his eyes, pursing his lips. _Bastard._

He pulled some water up and held the bucket over the board, pouring the water on her hands as she rinsed them.

“Thank you.”

He smiled awkwardly, nodding, and handed the bucket to her.

“That’s kind of you.”

At that he considered her.

She skimmed the metal of the bail with her thumbs. Her nails were gradually warming from bluish into purplish colour. A silly impulse possessed him: to cover her hands, impart his warmth...

“You said you had a sister,” she inquired harmlessly.

“Yes.”

He delivered no further remark. The girl smiled gingerly: she didn’t mean to turn it into an interrogation to requite for having been put in such a mortifying position. She was simply curious, but if he didn’t feel like baring his heart…

“Lucy,” he smiled at Galloway and propped his elbows on the gunwale. “Two years older,” he raised the eyebrows proudly.

The girl produced a supportive sound instead of an answer.

“She was a terrific artist: when we were little it was her who drew those illustrations for the … pamphlets,” he glanced over to check with her if she was privy to that subject.

“Yeah, Gates told me…” _about the pamphlets._

“Right, so she did those crosshatch-y designs. And she also did the writings, who am I kidding – my parents were overjoyed I learned to write legibly, but that was my bound,” he grinned at her.

“Bet you had… other talents,” she reasoned.

“Sure, I toted paper stacks from the press.”  
“I knew these shoulders don’t fit through certain doors for a reason,” the girl dimpled up.

Bones chastened a chuckle.

“Can you braid?” she blurted out and instantly frowned, blinking.

“Not really, she didn’t trust me with her hair,” he answered evenly. “Rightly so.”

There were a few beats of silence and Bones took a deep breath, the smile trickled down his face. That feeling always arrived to stay put. A dull, constant pain that never refused. It came up a notch: Gates.

All he could do was let it ooze.

“Rabelais, she read it to me.”

“I’ll bring it back,” the girl stepped away, but Billy’s fingers faintly brushed against her forearm.

“Hey, don’t…”  
“I don’t think I’ll ever wrestle it down anyway.”

“Oh, I know it nighly by heart, don’t worry.”

“Still you bought it…” she came back up to him.

“A momento.”

“And _Bacon_?”

“Found it in an inn in Port Royal.”

“Had she read it?”

“There’s every likelihood. She would read everything even resembling letters. She was the smart one,” the smile burst forth again.

“Do you bear resemblance, you think?”

He had to pause to ponder it for a moment, wrinkling the forehead, but then shook his head lightheartedly.

“Nah, she was a beauty of a girl. An angel,” he found Galloway studying his face way too intently that it made him laugh. “Yeah, again, I was the one cheated of my lawful share,” he trifled.

Bones really cared not about his appearance and ‘handsomeness’, but Galloway inlaced his features with due attention and caught her breath for rapture of how ethereal that girl, that woman, must’ve been. If there was a woman…

“You say she _was_ …” Gal bit her lower lip. “Is she…?”  
“Oh, alive? Yeah,” he nodded, but added in a moment. “I hope so.”

It was her turn to nod.

“’s just… Haven’t seen her in years. Can’t say everything I remember is still relevant. Though I don’t see a reason why it won’t be...”

And then Galloway decided it was the time to voice the dumbest question in the history of mankind.

“You miss her..?” she gathered.

The tenderness in his eyes her heart couldn’t take. He just smiled at her.

“I’m sorry.”

Another smile and the horizon magnetized his attention.

 

“Lucy is a jocund name,” she thought aloud.

“So is Galloway,” he echoed.

The girl snorted, and Bones just had to look at her at that. She rolled her eyes.

“It’s peculiar,” he shrugged, chuckling, as if explaining himself.

“Don’t judge.”

“I don’t,” he beamed at her falsely-annoyed face.

“Billy,” Galloway mirrored his posture, leaning on the gunwale, and looked up at the sky. “Billy,” she tasted it. “What a bland name…” she said cheekily. The look of her narrowed eyes was mocking, but amicably, soothing. She smiled. It suited her face. A stupid observation of his, but her nose seemed a bit bigger when she turned grumpy. Charming nonetheless. Still. It wasn’t that he shied away from _the word_. He wasn’t knowledgeable of beauty, but there was such depth about her that dubbing her pretty seemed to be a punishable offence.

Bones closed his eyes and raised the brows, shrugging.

“William, is it?”

“It is.”

“That’s all right,” she deliberated jokingly. “No middle name?”

“I’m afraid no.”

“And Lucy?”  
“Neither.”

“So, no fun at christenings it was, I believe.”

“Nah,” he shifted, facing her fully, with only one elbow on the board now.

Gal glanced up and breathed out heavily, “You’re right, it’s ludicrous.”  
“What is?”  
“The name. Galloway.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“The place is, but it’s not a name,” she stared at him with such woeful eyes, as if he could change it. “Do you know how many times I had to explain to these morons the difference between Galloway and Galway, and that I’m not Irish...”  
“... but Scottish.”

“I grew up in London,” she specified.

“But was born in...”

The girl nodded, giving a shrug of her shoulders.

“Well, you have a first name...”

“I do. I used to use it before... leaving,” Galloway ran her tongue across her lower lip. “I never told anyone what the _G_ really stood for. I lied,” the girl pursed her lips. “I would say it was _Grace_ , because this is where the beauty verily is...”

“And people believed it?”

“I’m a good liar.”

Bones just narrowed his eyes at her, biting on his lower lip.

“No one really cared,” she admitted. “Still, the best thing is that you can write the _G_ like that,” she drew the letter on the wood with her finger, but the gunwale was too polished for anything to be seen. However, Billy paid heed to make it out. “That way it looks both like the capital and the small letter – it can be either – and it can mean absolutely anything.”

“Like… a groundhog?”

Galloway closed her eyes, her cheeks bulged with a broad smile, “Exactly what I meant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> never believed the fic would get any attention (the series ended a century ago and, let's face it, Bones fiction was quite overlooked even back then)  
> so, thank you all for the hundredth time for giving an eye to this сrap of a work  
> and belated holiday greetings to you <3


	14. XVI. p. 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is long  
> also, I don't know what the sail lasted originally, but here it is somewhere around a week ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> merci for all the <3

The non-broken routine became a habit, and they watched the dawn struggle to arrive the few following days, debating on relative merits of equity law, talking, meandering, or just listening to the ship sing at night as they sat in a companionable silence.  All until she told him he didn’t need to bring her water anymore, expanding it was because _she_ didn’t need it, no longer: he wouldn’t have stopped failing that.

 

Candidly, Galloway did regret she had not embraced a subterfuge to stretch the string of the sociable nocturnal sallies, but she couldn’t really entrench upon his time he was supposed to spend resting.

She turned her head. His hammock was empty. Gal could forego sleep for she was in for little to no strenuous activity at all, but Billy? The man did break a sweat. _Is insomnia contagious?_

The light was permeating the deck through the hatch above her head. The girl turned to the side. A lump was still jamming her throat.

A long wink. Someone was snorting to the God Save the King rhythm: she felt her hands tremble out of irritation in the truest sense of the word. What a zestful enthusiasm the ship had that night.

Her stomach turned and it barely had anything to do with the sway of the hammock. She hastened to sit up.

 _Shite_.

Galloway let her feet dangle off the berth.

* * *

 

The girl wearily climbed to the aft deck and perched atop of the ladder.

Billy was on the quarter, she’d seen him, with his arms crossed on his chest marking the apparent desire for solitude as he watched the small waves crush against the board. Everybody needed seclusion, and she had been _oh so_ _shameless_ to invade his and force him to put up with her after a day full of putting up with other numpties. _Good thinking._

She ran her fingers through her hair nape up and let her heavy lids cover her eyes.

It wasn’t long until she heard dull thuds on the deck board behind her. Galloway moved aside to let the person pass, but that someone sat right next to her.

“Are you all night-birds now?” she breathed out turning to Joji.

He just beckoned to her hip.

“I cleaned it,” the girl brushed it aside, but Joji produced a grindstone and that got her interested. “All right.”

Galloway unbuckled the dagger and handed the hilt to the warrior.

She scooted over another inch to let the man get comfortable, but he chose to stand up, waving the knife he held by the blade, and leisurely walk away, with a mysterious smile on his face. Definitely purposefully, for in a second Billy’s approaching figure was unhindered for her view.

 

Galloway peered at him as he stepped closer.

 _Moody again_.

Repressing that wrath and grief, it did things.

But then a soft smile grew on her face.

“What is it?”  
“You have a halo,” she let out a tiny pearl of laughter. His face slid down, discombobulated. The girl dimpled up, “The moon, you’re standing against the light.”

Billy turned around. The moon indeed. He cast his eyes back at her. _Halo._

“All’s fine?” he lowered himself on the first step.

“Perfectly,” she gave a nod of her head. “How’s Jensen?”

Bones directed his eyes up. Galloway followed his gaze. The new rigger was twining the rope round himself, only half-intentionally.

“Feels like if there’s a way to fuck up, he’ll find it.”

The girl pursed her lips, “It must be tough with a rope up there.”

“Feeling wild to help him up?”

“Not necessarily,” she chuckled.

“You know how to handle ropes…”

“You don’t,” she said in a roundabout way.

She must’ve meat the blunder of the couple of days before, but as she spoke, still looking up, the muscles in her necked moved – and something tickled in his throat – and he clearly saw the fading yellowish bruise.

“Jesus, I hope he doesn’t fall,” forced Bones.

“Or shite,” she interjected and instantly sealed her lips.

 

“I’m not coping with the task,” lamented Galloway and then elaborated when his face provided ignorance over the subject, “Abigail.”

“Task?”

“I let _it_ slip off my tongue once and her eyes got so wide,” she said sadly. “Flint took me here because… Well, Miss Ashe, Mrs Barlow – if you have trouble with two women, the third one is a rescue…”

“I think it’s meant for a different predicament,” his eyebrows jumped as he grinned. “I don’t believe she thinks ill of you.”

Galloway’s eyes roamed his face.

“How do _you_ know?”

“Well, for one, she doesn’t go white when Joji is around anymore…”

“She knows you’re rescuing her…”

“But she still maintains a healthy measure of revulsion to the goddamned ship.”

“Isn’t it perfectly justified?” the girl gulped and looked up.

“More than.”

“She says Charles Vane told her he’d throw her body into the sea should they not reach an agreement with her father. And she says he’s the reasonable one. About Captain Low she doesn’t even talk.”

“Vane killed him. Not all the attempts at justice fail.”

“She knows it wasn’t justice. Not for her benefit, even if so. She doesn’t believe in justice here.”

“There’s no justice for marginalized and unprivileged where she’s heading, where we are heading, so she is quite right.”

Galloway bit the inside of her lower lip, her face betraying an argument she hampered, and she pivoted, “Do you think she will be able to forget it like a ghastly dream?”

Billy didn’t answer at first.

“We’re just a few days shy of delivering her to her father. It shall be behind her.”

Gal let her gaze fall onto the steps separating them as she nodded in a semi-faux agreement, hum vibrating from her throat.

“She calls bullshit on Silver,” she smirked out of nowhere and Billy flickered his eyes at her.

“Well, she is indeed better informed about the colony…”

“It’s not that. She’s never been there for that matter...”  
“Is it the high-sounding words that surprise her?”

“Right, and how they make up for the lack of … substance, sometimes.”

“There’s no might to keep it shut in this man.”

“Oh, _I_ know,” she arched her brows. It was her who was stuck with him in the galley a good part of the day, “Bleedin’ blether.”

Bones didn’t really know what Abigail was afraid of, he could only assume she harboured all sorts of feelings: but despite the fact she hovered around Galloway a significant amount of time, he never accorded nothing above polite attention to her. He resolved to get a closer look later, maybe. After all, she was a concern of Galloway’s.

“Try covering the epithets, next time,” he suggested.

The girl sniffled towardly, “Fair, on her account.”

“Certainly not mine,” the corner of his mouth quirked upwards. The girl smiled back.

* * *

 

Gal knocked and, upon hearing an invitation to come in, opened the door to the captain’s cabin. Seeing the girl, Abigail rose to her feet.

“The fruit,” smiled Galloway, setting a small bowl on the desk, and gestured for Miss Ashe to help herself.  Another one-time turned routine. The girl bowed slightly, looking and James and Miranda.

“I hope, Mrs Hamilton, you wouldn’t mind me catching a breath of fresh air,” Abigail’s eyebrows rose a little as her considerate voice filled the room.

_Mrs Hamilton._

“No, darling,” Miranda checked with Flint. “But take care.”

The captain nodded, and Gal allowed the lady to catch up with her before they left the cabin.

 

“The sky is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?” Galloway smiled as they walked to the board.

“It truly is amazing,” Abigail fiddled with the twig of the apple she had snatched before going out. “I’m sorry to make demands on your time...”

“Not at all...”

“I simply can’t be a handicap at the table there anymore. I believe the captain would prefer if I cleared the room, there’s much to discuss … for them.”

“Must be.”

_Mrs Hamilton._

The surmise was confirmed, and the girl felt her body go aflame. She reckoned the sole reason she hadn’t yet collapsed was that the reduced capacity of her brain barred the mass of it all to sink in.

“Will you excuse me for a moment?” Gal touched the lady’s hand, capturing her attention.”I still have a thing to see to in the galley, but I shall be quick.”

“Of course,” murmured Abigail raising her eyebrows.

“Joji will keep an eye on you,” she beckoned to her friend standing not far away. “A minute, not a second more.”

Abigail nodded, smiling weakly.  

 

The girl’s fingers went trembling and she clasped her hands together. Galloway moved in the direction of the ladder to the deck below, back to Randall and that stupid pumpkin they struggled to cut. It all was incrementally making more and more sense and quite as much skidding to a halt. And then her step faltered: something flickered up the rig.

She squinted, trying to make it out, but it took a clearer form the following second, as Nicholas went crushing down.

He hit the deck and she believed she could feel the wooden planks tremble beneath her feet.

 

The crew flocked to his body like startled pigeons. Galloway walked forward, slowly, warily.

Someone was giving a shout for Howell, painfully pro forma.

And she saw him.

His skull fractured, limbs lifeless, bent at unnatural angles. The men around afoot.

 

_“Don’t let her come close, she’s afraid”, says an old lady, seeing the girl appear in the room. “She’s going to faint…”, ”… pale…”, “…trembling…”, “…look”. But she doesn’t faint, she doesn’t shake, her step is firm and determined. Lips pursed and brows straight. She makes her way to the coffin without faltering._

 

Decker hunched down to him.

Galloway receded, but only to bump into someone’s chest.

She felt a belt and a handle of a dagger propping against her back. It was the body she had already felt that way before. 

Billy put his hand on her shoulder, forcing her to step beside him, shielding her from the view. The girl didn’t resist.

When he turned to sight her a couple of moments later, she wasn’t there.

 

Galloway had rushed to Miss Ashe standing next to Joji, fright dancing in her large eyes, and grabbed her hand to lead her back to the captain’s quarters.

 

Their unannounced entrance forced Flint up onto his feet.

He narrowed his eyes, alarmed, “What is it?”

“Nicholas,” the girl breathed out and Abigail acknowledged the shaking in the hand circling her wrist. “Lost the footing or…”

Without a word, the captain shot off to the door. It banged against something outside when he left, having yanked it open. And now it was slowly closing, with a wailing sound.

“Come, sit,” mourned Miranda in a whisper as she stood up.

Agitated, Abigail plopped on a chair next to Mrs Barlow’s, but Gal stood still.

 

_His face is pale, almost ashen. Prenaturally symmetrical. A line crossing his forehead._

_Rest._

 

She thought she was bereft of reason, but Miranda’s hands cupping her face pulled her back to her senses. The woman put a stray lock of Galloway’s hair behind her ear.

Her name being called was battling through her attenuated hearing and she dumbly stared at Mrs Barlow’s face for about a minute before nodding and closing her eyes.

“Can we talk?” she wheezed barely audibly.

“Later,” Miranda answered alike, adjusting the hairs framing Galloway’s forehead.

The girl’s lids fluttered and she parted her lips again, but only to ask after Abigail, as if she herself hadn’t gulped down fear and disturbance with practiced ease just a second ago.

 

Miranda had frustrated all Galloway’s attempts to leave the cabin when Flint wasn’t back fifteen minutes later, and seated the girls on a windowsill, stilling them. Something shadowy was now hovering under the ceiling like a fog.

She kept stealing glances at them: both trying to feed their presence of mind on small talk and peeling oranges with zero intent to eat them.

Another fifteen minutes and there came a knock on the door. Mrs Barlow turned short. James wouldn’t knock on his own door...

It clicked open and Bones ducked his head, walking in.

“I’m sorry to bother… Galloway,” his raspy voice forced the girl to unglue the eyes off the juicy flesh and acknowledge his presence. “It’s Randall.”

Galloway flicked a glance back to Miss Ashe, and the lady gave her a whisper of a smile.

 

Abigail trailed her movements as the girl stood up hesitantly and strode to the door that the tall pirate held open. He let her walk out first, surveying her somnambulate past him, mumbling a ‘thank you.’

And he gave the ladies in the room a nod before following Galloway out.  

 

Perhaps it all was not as putrid as her father had painted.

* * *

 

“Is he done with the pumpkin?” she fired before he could open his mouth.

“Yeah, had to help.”

“It was adamant, never believed pumpkins were so tough to cut...”

“They can be,” he frowned at the crown of her head as she kept avoiding looking up.

“Well, thank you...”

“Hey,” Billy’s knuckles brushed against the rolled part of her sleeve and she uneasily turned to face him when they reached the companionway. “You all right?”

He had already learned what her face looked like when she cursed inwardly, and that was the face, and that was the question she was tired of lying answering to.

“Are you?” Galloway shrugged, not truly angry. She cosseted him with a tender smilet she rarely bestowed upon anyone but Abigail and Miranda (a few times, Randall). 

Bones sucked in his cheeks, breathing in deeply. _Touché_.

He missed how, but her hand cupped the back of his and she fit an orange into his open palm.

“Scurvy is a nasty lass,” she explained and left to never appear on the deck until the next day.

Hew dewy touch fled as abruptly as it had come, leaving Billy dumbfounded, but with a conveniently peeled fruit.

* * *

 

The mess the following morning was dead silent.

 

Gal sat at a table, with Decker by her side, and sadly gazed at Abigail, drinking in her dear features.

She hadn’t failed to notice the looks they shared. Miss Ashe and Billy. Right before Flint disclosed the story of Bones’ past. The story Galloway had heard from Gates, but much more detailed, tinted by woe and paternal affection. _Oh, Gates._ _Oh, Billy._

Galloway gulped down a lump.

 

Abigail was a flower. So pure. With her big eyes and big heart, with her soft voice and soft skin, smelling sweet and smiling sweet…

Did he fancy her?

_The whole crew fancy her, save for Randall... and Joji, possibly._

That was a girl to desire. That was a girl to fall in love with.

Overcoming obstacles with gallantry, helping others on that way. With enough brains and luck not to fall from grace. Not to lose her _virgin value_ by force of a night between the sheets with a man...

_Bullshit. No sheets. No man._

_You should’ve fought for it. You should’ve fought for it more desperately, you shouldn’t have been afraid of death. He wouldn’t have killed you. He is too much a coward for that… As if cowards don’t kill._

She looked down into her bowl. Oh, was she sailing close to the wind: being sick right in the middle of the mess would be a performance to see. She pushed the food away.

Galloway was sinking lower and lower, the lasting humiliation and the notion of being, and staying, worthless burned itself into her mind. She’d changed, but she hadn’t been given a choice. Of course she came across as questionable to Miss Ashe: her whole being incongruous with any setting, be it the pirate ship or high society.

Shite. The epitome of what her life turned into. Galloway squirmed, picturing her own face. Her dress long forgotten, her hair a mess since day one, the skin on her hands coarsening... she knew had she let all her strength concentrate in her hand, she would’ve bent the spoon she was holding. Frustration was building at a rate of knots.

The girl gulped down.

 

Bones registered the tension in her hand. And the degree of focus in her eyes set upon the lady.

He was seated not far from Galloway. Just looking. Since she didn’t demure anymore.

She wasn’t eating, just staring, her jaw loose, eyes tired and full of sorrow. And he followed her gaze only to find Abigail studying him.

Miss Ashe offered him an innocent smile and averted her regard to look at the person Billy was so lost in. Tables were slowly turning, and when Gal finally had the object of her observations cast her eyes upon her, she smiled.

She knew whom the lady had been watching. And that stupid feeling inside seemed absurd.  

 

Gal stood up, rolling her sleeves.

“Ain’t gonna finish?” Decker beckoned to her plate.

“No,” she smiled again, shaking her head.

Galloway sidled in between the tables, and went up the aisle to the cook room, trying to ignore the feeling that at least a couple of people were staring at her. Then she felt something more tangible: a slap on her bottom.

“Ahoy, lubber, if he gets your food, what do I get?” laughed the pirate, not retrieving his hand.

 

“Remove it,” she said plainly, looking at the man over her shoulder. The spite in her eyes clear and sharp, but underfoot. “’s awful stupid,” well, the crew was in the middle of the mess. The captain was there, and the two lady-passengers, not to mention the people who had all the makings to become the pirate’s undoing.  Mr Nocks was a new addition to the crew, Gal knew, and he hadn’t been among them when they got the Man o’ war.

“Come on, don’t be a prude,” judging by the fact he even ventured to lay his paws on her meant nobody had informed him about what happened to Vincent back there.

“Please?”

It had no effect. She expected as much.

“The code of conduct reads no striking one another on board, have you happened to acquaint with it? I wish not to get flogged over your cavalier attitude and moronic appetence to answer the call of carnal desires...” she slapped him hard on the wrist, throwing his hand down.

“Leave her alone,” said Silver, bowing down to his place again, seeing the situation had resolved.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” Nocks’ gripped her forearm.

His grasp brought her to spin and she faced him standing up.

“What part of ‘remove you hands’ is beyond your depth?” she pronounced in a lived-in voice.

“I didn’t see it that you cunts aren’t on a tight leash here,” hissed Nocks right into her ear. “The code reads no she-dogs on board. If you happen to acquaint with it. And if you hold it that you are a part of the crew, you are under a vast delusion. So I advise you not to peacock and make it up to me before it hits the rocks,” the man was leaning in and the girl could smell the stench of his breath.

“Look, brotha’, you a’ in no favou’able position,” growled Joshua, quite under his breath, from not that far.

Miranda glanced up from her food, taking a pull from her mug, upon hearing it, and froze. That subtle shift of her expression led Flint to recognise the unrest just in time. He stretched his arm out to catch Joji by the wrist. The man was near rage. So was Bones (albeit he knew it perfectly well whatever he did would earn him another batch of moodiness on her part, but _fuck it_ ), Howell, Decker, Joji, DeGroot (even), a large group of no-names; some of the crew (Muldoon included) took to their spoons, twisting them in their hands. Some of the crew, though, seemed to be amused.

Flint kept holding Joji’s arm and Mrs Barlow wished he had not. The girl would never overpower Nocks.

Galloway was aware of that. And she was also aware she didn’t have to, she didn’t even ponder it apparently, for the next thing Miranda saw was her giving an abrupt pluck at the longish hemp necklace decorating the pirate’s neck. Galloway coiled it round her palm in one swift movement, pulling up. Silver aptly held the table in place as the man tumbled, his uncontrolled motion threatening to worry the spread ware. Nocks produced a sorry wheeze and the veins above the thread almost cutting thorough his skin went popping a little.

“Fuck off,” she said almost entreatingly, defying Billy’s advice regarding profanities.

He heard it, she knew.

 

Galloway didn’t see Randall spit right into the man’s bowl to ensure the meaning of the code sunk in quite sufficiently, as Nocks tried to flop back down. She didn’t see he never managed to sit down as Flint let go of Joji’s arm, giving a nod of his head, and the man took the assaulter under the arms to drag him to the main deck.

 

Billy followed the warrior with his eyes, knowing he alone would be more than just enough to deliver a legitimate scourge, and met – almost bumped into – Abigail’s gaze. And if Bones wasn’t mistaken, it wasn’t unintentional. And if he wasn’t mistaken, they were on the same page.

He already turned to the galley when Mrs Barlow crossed his path, quickly, but stealthily, not attracting much attention, and hurried after Galloway.

 

The girl fetched a pot off a hook on the go.

The seething anxiety burst out with coveted fervour. She sat on the floor, crouched like a wounded animal.

A light hand landed on her back.

Right, it wasn’t her who closed the door.

Miranda rubbed her shoulder.

“Can we talk?” the girl almost wept as Mrs Barlow’s palm stroked simple patterns on her back. The huge chunk of the transpired was still pending.

“Yes,” murmured the woman. “But I shall pour you some water first, all right?”

The girl nodded, her pointer finger ran under her tearing eye.

Miranda planted a kiss to her temple.

* * *

 

The body bad disappeared, succumbing to the water.

Billy lowered his eyes, the jaw stiffened. It was his ultimate fate as well.

It shouldn’t become hers.

 

She stood within call, Miss Ashe left her on her ownsome, joining Mrs Barlow on the quarterdeck. It was plainly visible she’d done so for Galloway: Abigail easily preferred the keen display of support the girl offered. But the girl longed for space.

 

Gal closed her eyes, banishing the thoughts out of her head. She wished not to think of the duties that awaited her below the deck. The mere mind of food retched. Randall was acting off: must’ve been because of the death that had crept up on them in such a barbaric manner, and because of the proximity of the uncertainty that was Charlestown.

She just wanted him by her side, teaching her things, telling her stories, making her laugh, hugging her, sniffing her hair.

Her hand balled in a relaxed fist as she imagined squeezing his hand. He would stand next to her and point forward, explaining why they could see the moon in broad daylight. And then somehow he’d drift away to another topic, his university lads, or recollecting his fist voyage to the West Indies. _Please, guide me._

Her stomach muscles tensed and she swayed a little.

_I miss you. So much._

All it took was crying, but she couldn’t afford it. She never had a moment, a proper moment to mourn. They started kicking her the minute he stopped breathing. If not earlier.

_I’m desperately afraid, father._

If she went soft, it all would be over. As much as she needed to get rid of the water weighing down the boat she was sailing, she had no time for it. She had no aid. Idelle was the first person to see her cry in months, she was the first one to help her unburden, but that tiny hysteria was equal to dragging water out with a cup. And Galloway was taking on much more every day, the boards hardly half a foot above the surface.

_I nill to live without you._

 

The girl opened her eyes. The crew set to work. Yet someone was burning a hole in her and she got aware of the feverish thrill possessing her body.

_Joji. Is he judging me for swinging the lead?_

She sheepishly turned her head. Not Joji.

She smiled at him and reverted her eyes to the horizon again.

_I know you are displeased with me. But let me wish death on myself when it is all over._

_Please, answer._

_Father._

_Let me know when you want to see me there._

_Don’t be vexed if I rush in._

_Dad._

_I miss you._

_This is stupid._

_Why is it that way?_

_Dad. I love you. I always will._

A treacherous tear run down her face. _Oh, quit looking at me, Billy._

Galloway dropped her head, turning away – there was nothing for it but that - only to see the most unsettling scene since when she walked on the carpenter jerking off. _No, that was downright unparalleled._

She left her spot the same second, for Randall went on the deck, enunciating profanities in a painfully high-pitched voice.

Billy grimaced at the sight of him trying to chase one of the crew, claiming the pirate had stolen his peg leg. And Galloway had to take Randall by the arm, reassuring him that the leg, for that matter, was attached to his stump at that exact moment.

 

“Will you see to it? While I’m away.”

Billy wrung his head round to see the captain approaching. He pointed at the main mast.

“Sure,” Bones squinted at the sails.

“Funny it is,” Flint locked his hands behind his back. “We never know when death will welcome us into her shady embrace, do we?”

Billy eyed the captain, staring down on him.

“If I didn’t know you I could say it was a threat,” he translated his look onto the sky.

“An advice,” James arched an eyebrow. “Time and tide...”

His hand landed on Billy’s back with a dull clap.

The advice was an omen. For both of them.

* * *

 

The man of war steered into the Charlestown bay and manifested an item for the crew: tension. Gooey like honey, thick like pudding, detestable.

Galloway tucked some locks behind her ears and smoothened her hair yoked into a braid. Abigail was hesitant at first, but came up to the girl nevertheless.

Gal beamed, stretching her hand forward to squeeze Miss Ashe’s palm, but the lady stepped closer.

Neither of them knew how improper it was, if it was so, but neither of them cared. What were the rules of decorum anyway? Their embrace was feather-light, more sisterly warm than awkward.

“Fare you well,” Galloway bit her lower lip, inclining her head, as they drew back.

“Take care, Miss Gates,” there was so much more she was willing to say to the girl, but she reckoned they reached a tacit understanding, and that was the best way to transmit that caring. “Thank you.”  

 

“She will be all right.”

“I know.”

Galloway turned to Miranda.

“Good luck,” mouthed the girl.

“Thank you, it might be an asset,” Mrs Barlow pulled on a strained smile, but her face relaxed after a moment.

They clasped their hands in a goodbye.  
  
The girl watched Abigail gracefully struggle getting in a longboat, and only when the last sentiments in the form of weak smiles and waving hands were rendered, Galloway stepped away from the board.

* * *

 

She opened the journal and the crisp, blank pages easily separated from the ones covered with Abigail’s neat writing. The paper was slick and smelled _old_ , and the ink that bled through the pages swirled, taking after the lady’s calligraphy.

 

All doubt had evaporated when Abigail had closed that log earlier that morning, and parked it on the desk, raising those deer eyes at the girl.

“Do you want it destroyed?”  
“I don’t see why it shall be kept, but…” she pressed her fingers on the cover and pushed it an inch towards Galloway.

It took a moment to sink, and when it did, the girl dimpled up, from the bottom of her heart.

She wasn’t lost. That girl, the purest person that had ever set her foot on those decks, trusted her. Despite everything.

There wasn’t any ‘despite’ for Abigail, really, “With you I’m… certain.”

 

Galloway was granted the permission and she ran her open palm against a page, stroking it.

She read it with due consideration, wandering closer to the big windows of the captain’s cabin, drifting free…

“Hey. Heyheyhey,” Muldoon rushed in. “Go calm that madman down!”  
“Excuse me?” she lowered the journal, turning round. Billy steadily walked in behind the eggshell.

“Randall be up again...”  
“And instead of dealing with him you went looking for me?” one of her eyebrows sank.

“Aye!”

“Pure dead brilliant,” the girl shook her head, turning back to the diary. “Find Silver, it’s his turn.”

“’e’s in the privy.”

“Valid point,” she didn’t look up. “Then you do it.”

“But...”

“I’m going to not do that.”

“Are ye readin’ the lady’s inkshed?” Muldoon crept up to her side, but she pressed the journal to her chest before he could get a glimpse of a word.

“I am,” she finally scanned him. “And she writes you are a sharp lad, who keeps his head and puts things that fly into a rage in order.”

“An’ whom else she writes about?” the bald man was indomitable.

“It’s only just you,” Galloway put on a sugary smile and Billy chuckled, sitting on the edge of the table.

“Bullshit,” Muldoon moved his head back. “She ‘as to mention Bones. ‘eard the ma’am say the lady took interest in our mate.”

“No surprise,” Gal raised her eyebrows, trying to duck from his attacks on the diary.

“Whatever, back on me,” he grinned. “What else?”

“She says you are marvellous and awesome,” Gal dug him in the soft of the stomach with the spine of the diary as he kept dancing around her. “But she’s not too fond of that dreich...hairdo layout...”

Muldoon straightened, putting his fists on his sides and bending his spine back a little.

“She’s not _that_ Irish, Galway,” he quipped.

The girl, pursing her lips, fixed her eyes on Billy, who simply laughed, hanging his head.

“I’ll tell Randall ye stole ‘is leg…” Muldoon went on.

“Success attend you!”

The pirate nodded, reassuring her.

“Now will you please sort him out? Just take him below the deck and...”

“Don’t teach granny to suck eggs, I know what to do.”

Her eyes didn’t bug, as Billy’d expected, but she rubbed her brows, frowning.

“Will you let me be already? What is that with you today, worm?”

Muldoon didn’t answer. He retreated, smiling and wagging his finger at her.

The girl breathed out through the nose and looked at Billy.

He kept grinning.

“It’s amusing how you still tolerate us.”

“It’s amusing how you still tolerate me,” she put the diary on the table.

“What is there to tolerate?”

“You tell me,” the girl smirked and reached for a quill.

“What is it?” he leaned over to get a closer look when Galloway tapped on the quill lightly and let a drop of ink fall onto the paper, blotching over something.

“Miss Ashe wrote ‘ _her’_ , clearly referring to... not Mrs Barlow.”

Billy skimmed the page to spot ‘ _the tall man_ ’ and ‘ _he’_ scattered around it, clearly referring to someone he was acquainted with.

“No surprise?” he said over, glancing at Galloway.  
“Hmm?”

Bones simply pointed at his appearance in the log.

“Oh...” it was a feathery frown followed by a tight smile. “Well, you are the Billy Bones, aren’t you?”

“Um... yes?”

Galloway shrugged, as if it really answered it, and held the book up, level to her eyes, flicking the page back and forth to make certain there was no trace of her left.

“Do you intend to keep it?”  
“Miss Ashe said I could and... yes, I guess.”

Billy nodded, letting his eyes soak in some more words, but her fine hand slowly closed the journal. Bones peered up at her, raising the brows in query, and Galloway smiled.

“I don’t think... she would appreciate it.”

“Right.”

“There’s nothing bad about you,” she assured, seeking to smoothen the rude interruption. “Nothing bad about any of you, for that matter.”

“And what about the perfectly justified revulsion?”

“It’s not...that,” Galloway inhaled deeply and then sharply breathed out. “She is intimidated. But she’s devoid of prejudice and preconception... not entirely, but... You see, she is asking questions,” the girl was looking into his eyes searchingly, checking for comprehension. “Instead of making up the answers. She questions what they take for granted, but, God, it might not aid her _there_ ,” she swayed her head in desperation.

“Hey, she will be all right. Home, tended, sheltered, secure. Miss Ashe is smart and educated enough to resist being kept in endearing ignorance, you say she is so…”

Galloway chewed her lower lip and, throwing a glance at Billy, folded her arms and slowly turned to walk to the window.

“I know what you imagine, but her being abducted by pirates, continuing captive and sailing under the death will not get her shunned and shamed, ostracised,” he exhaled and licked his lip, looking at her back. “You will not be ostracised there, for none of it.”

“What do I have to do with it?” she said absently.

“Wait…”

Galloway wrung her head and arched an eyebrow at him.

“Captain is there… to arrange for you as well.”

  
“All of us,” she corrected, shrugging.

“No, us _and_ you.”

Her countenance darkened and as she looked at him, he felt Muldoon.

“He’s there to seek reconciliation and furnish you a home, rescue there.”

Her neck moved when she swallowed, and Galloway turned back to the window.

“He’d better not.”

“What?”  
“I don’t want to stall there.”

“Galloway, don’t be foolish,” he stood up slowly.

“I’m not being foolish.”

“You aren’t serious: you cannot choose this over decent life...” his tune gone surly.  
“You did,” she peered at him again.

“Yes, I did,” the bitterness tainted his words. “Because I grew enough of a beast to rip a man open.”

“You’re not a beast,” she pleaded.

“I chose it because I had no route back...”

“He would’ve absolved you...” she whispered.

Rage came surging inside him, but it flattened. It wasn’t her he was mad at. She only dared to assume so because she _wanted_ it to be that way.

“You don’t know it,” he spoke cooly. “I don’t, really. But it doesn’t matter. I have blood on my soul, I made a brutal choice and I opted to never put him in the situation where he would have to choose between his son and his philosophy…”  
“He could’ve been so cruel,” she muttered, her preoccupation too heartfelt to let her know how disturbing it all was.

“You understand it is anything but simple.”  
“Did he not love you?” her brows bumped together.

“He did,” Bones locked his jaw and gazed at the sea. “That is the reason,” she evoked something he’d not touched in a good while and that wound opened to let out a runlet of warm. “He had a fascinating brain full of earthshattering ideas. But, essentially, his faith in his creed and purpose was fraying at the edges round that time, for no matter what we did, we were nowhere near truly changing things. What happened must’ve spurred, rekindled him. I hope it did, I’m sure it did. That must’ve been the virtue of it,” he jerked one shoulder.

Her eyes, moving fast as she looked in his eyes, tore up and her lip trembled when she uttered, “No…”

“It all lingered in a situation barely acceptable, and the only way to acknowledge the gravity is to feel it on your skin…”

“Billy,” she let out a shuddering breath. “It is. But he would’ve…”  
“Maybe. I don’t know for certain. _I_ chose to choose.”  
“And do you regret it?”  
Did he regret it?

His breath didn’t flicker and he moved no muscle, but he knew her perusal was too sharp to notice what his eyes were telling her. He didn’t regret taking farewell from the reign that put the ideology and doctrines before concerns and interests of ordinary people. And he did regret it to the same extent.

“You have a way back,” he muttered after a long halt.

“You had someone to go back to. I don’t. I didn’t get to chose. The sole reason I didn’t end it there and then and travelled all that way to Nassau was because my father told me to do so.”

“Your father told you so?”

“Yes. He didn’t say Charlestown, he didn’t say Boston, not Spain, not France, not anything, but Nassau and Flint. He didn’t trust anyone and justly so. The only person he trusted was the captain, and my father was the only person I could trust…”

“And you trust Flint? Reconciliation means bringing all of it to Nassau...”  
“Not necessarily.”

“And what if?”

 “Oh, Billy, I don’t know,” she spun round, letting the dismay leak away. “There’re other places out of royal reach or... I can’t answer it. I don’t know what to do, but I do know what not to do. Does it make sense?”  
“Sometimes.”

“I understand what my father wanted me to find there, in Nassau. What I don’t understand is how he was so sure I would make it – perhaps Gates had the point and I _am_ fucking tougher than I think. And I’m not ‘rejoining society’,” she said mockingly. “You know how much civilization is left there? It’s now only a hollow word hovering over the turmoil like a ghost, like a shield that is see-through. I’ve been to Charlestown on my was to the islands, I’ve seen it, and it is no different from the places I fled.”

“What the hell did he want you to find in Nassau? Forgive me, but I fail to see what convenience the Bahamas have against the colonies for you,” he was galled, he didn’t conceal it, but Galloway didn’t seem to have trouble with that.

“Life? Without having to explain myself, knee in front of people imploring them to believe me.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he uttered and Galloway moved her head to perceive him standing next to her.

“For…?”

“What they’ve done to you.”

The girl blinked.

She realised then that she had been enjoying the privilege of being the only person who could start that talk. She was far from the place where people _knew_ about it. Here, no one did unless she wanted them to. And she didn’t know what to feel now.

“Was it Flint?” her hand reached to rub the base of her neck and collarbones, trying to soothe the panic erupting inside. “Who told you?”

“Yes,” he almost choked on the word.

“So that’s where the pity comes from.”

He made use of her eyes being closed and rolled his own.

“See now?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer and she recognized the futility of the question – he knew it all along that conversation, for him there was no change. She was feeling sick again, and she opened her eyes. Bones was watching her, concern painted on his face unmistakable, and she knew she could use a way to avoid the second purge of the day.

“What is the point of going back? To the protocols and no swearing and enduring the _looks_ and being frowned upon _no matter what_. What is there for me? Indulgence? If I go back I will let them ordain my fate again, and you bloody know how royally they can fuck up there. See, however stupid it sounds, aren’t we… free that way? Am I finally not out that space where those men with water in their veins instead of blood, who seek to deny things to others for all the right and wrong reasons, believe they have the right to decide for me, as if I’m not equipped to do it myself?”  
“You fucking are,” like nobody else Bones knew that all the difference between Nassau and civilization was erased: it all came down to money, vengeance, collaborationism and pure treachery. “But don’t you see what you’re sacrificing?”

“Nothing,” she almost raised her voice, her eyes gashing him. “That day… a lady on the street reached out for me with a coin in her hand. Because of how shoddy I looked,” her nostrils were flaring. “And I refused, but I knew that second that this is what I chose over death that day. Then I thought it would simply be… dying from a disease, or freezing to death under a urine soaked wall in the slums of London surrounded by bastards desperate for a goddamn fuck with an easy woman that I, by that moment, already aligned with. I believed then it was the worst outcome that I would see – and Nassau is still much better than that but…” she trailed off and steadied for a breath. “But I caused his death. They killed my father. They allowed for it to happen, they all allowed for all of it to unwind and… There’s nothing to sacrifice. And the last thing I want is to return that shite of a world that my father was fighting against and paid with his life and… I don’t know how stupid it looks to you. You’re welcome to judge, but unless you shove me into a canon and fire me onto that beach, no way in hell will you see me set my foot there.”

There were doors Billy didn’t fit through - that was true. He also had to bow down walking into the captain’s quarters, but he felt had she had a poor hold on her emotion, she would’ve taken him by the collar and given him a shake he’d have remembered. She never raised her voice, but he felt small. Gates told him the strongest protest always burst from the most delicate chest…

But Gates also would’ve punched Bones in the face for making her so upset. And, fuck it, Billy was itching to punch himself. She breathed out shakily, lowering her head, and he felt her breath on his chest to finally realize the nearness they unconsciously reached. It felt so native to just reach for her and reassure, hold her by the shoulder, but he wouldn’t.

“You didn’t cause it, Galloway. None of it is the fault of yours, please don’t…”

She puffed, cutting him off, and pressed her hand to her forehead, “Of course I did. Had I been killed none of it would’ve happened. Had I killed myself he wouldn’t have been dead. Oh, Jesus, I should’ve…” the girl covered her mouth with her wrist. The violent heartbeat was pushing the tears to the surface and she was fighting a losing battle. “I should’ve married him and murdered him in his sleep and then been tried, but then it would be for something I had committed…”

“Stop talking,” he shook his head, clenching his fists.

“… should’ve killed myself and saved…”  
“Please, do shut up,” his voice went a sliver louder and she pursed her lips. He never believed he’d say that to her, but he did wish she would close her mouth. For once in his life he would rather see a woman cry - he could see it coming - since he knew of the appeasing effects of it. But she didn’t only shut up, she stiffened. _You fucking bastard._

“Listen,” Billy sat on the windowsill so that he could see her face – lips pursed and nostrils wide. “Gates was right about you. Your father was right about you. I wish he didn’t have to subject you to it at all,” he wasn’t even sure she cared what he thought, but she opened up to him so genuinely, on an instinct, on an impulse, spilled out all the bitterness, all the poison that had been brewing inside, and boiling and hurting; and he felt he had to respond in kind. “I’m sorry to have made assumptions and I feel the urge to assure you there is no condescending pity that you accuse me of, all right? I merely wish you didn’t have to bear and suffer it all. There’re things Miss Ashe speaks not of, but so do you. And I know what it feels. But please know none of your hardships are your fault,” Billy could see how hard it was getting for Galloway to keep her mouth shut, but he appreciated that she did. “I wish you weren’t deracinated…”

“I wish you weren’t, too,” he was too quick to judge. The girl acknowledged her babble and bit her tongue, but Bones only chuckled, raising his eyebrows. She smiled back, dropping her eyes. “It’s not that there’s any help for it,” she let her teeth scrap over her lip.

“Nah,” he breathed out. “Gates would say… hold fast to what you think is right,” she blinked up at him. “And to you personally he would say, be tough, but not against yourself. There are still heaps of _shite_ ahead, so do hold fast. But remember that should you need help… just quit being a mule. The crew like you. We’re here for each other.”

She laughed silently.

“Don’t you believe Randall?” he marveled theatrically.

“It’s debatable that he ever said it,” Gal shifted her weigh onto one foot. “I never heard it, could be just a figment of yours.”

“I am a crew,” he shrugged. “And I’m saying... you’re very easy to tolerate.”

He widened his eyes - he customarily did that to certify his words – and she liked that.

“Well, with you saying that, I’m certain it’s not the case,” she cocked her head to the side.

Bones dissolved into a smile.

There were a few seconds of pure silence before her brow twitched.

The girl bit the corner of her lip, hollowly moving her eyes onto the blueness of the sea outside.

“She’ll be fine,” he said. “She’ll manage.”

Galloway looked back at him. She suddenly beamed, brightly and purely, the sole mention of Miss Ashe erasing all the corrosive grime in the blink of an eye.

“She is a wonder, isn’t she?”

“Well, if she calls bullshit on Silver, she more than just fit to survive whatever life has in store for her…”

“Do you happen to jot down everything I say?”

Bones embodied a smile.

 

Another moment of calm. The water murmured behind his back through the tiny hinged pane of the window. It sounded somnolent, and the air was fresh and tender. Something sent a long, slender reflection of the sun onto her neck and dimpled cheek. The cabin looked warmed by the sunlight, even the silver inkpot bore a yellowish reflection. She was eyeing the azure water, her lashes moving curiously.

 “Utterly sorry to terminate yer sweet discourse, but Randall just attempted to climb the rigging,” Muldoon jolted them back to reality, pleasantly out of breath: thus they knew he did try. “I. Rest. Me. Fuckin’. Case.”

Bones was actually glad he reemerged, for he was afraid where that knowing she could use an embrace could lead him…

“And Silver is still in the privy, I reckon,” Galloway sucked her teeth, turning around.

“Go check yerself, woman,” he flung his hands up. “Pardon me fer bein’ so simplistic, I would definitely take all the time it takes cajolin’ ye, but, please, just come. Now.”

The girl made a flowing motion of her hand, gesturing at Muldoon, as she glanced at Billy with a nod.

“They are good people,” he encouraged.

“Positively,” and then she dropped, walking away, “Pardon me.”

 

The door closed behind her with a soft click.

His gaze fell onto the diary resting on the table.

It now seemed harder than ever. He knew he wouldn’t canon her into safety. He learned the concept of safety was way narrower than he’d reckoned.

For all that, Bones recognized they had to see to it that one day she wouldn’t be living that ghastly nightmare. He didn’t know what it would take, but he was certain whatever it was – once she was on that safe side, once it all would be behind her – he could never see her again.


	15. XVII.

_She holds his hand for support and climbs into the carriage._

_He sits next to her, covering her palm with his._

_The lasher clicks his tongue and she inertly tips back, sinking into the soft lining. The motion of the carriage induces slight nausea, but she keeps her eyes out of the window. The perennial row of perennially grey buildings, scarce trees, gentlemen too busy pacing to stop and drop a penny into a beggar’s hand, chaperoned ladies on leisurely walks. Dogs._

_“Elizabeth,” he whispers._

_But she doesn’t hear._

_“Lizzie,” he repeats once more, softly brushing his fingers against her cheek. She turns her head, their almost black eyes lock. She is too placid. “It is over, petal.”_

_But he knows she is too smart to believe it. Her chest heaves._

_Mr Faulkner softly holds her head, pressing a firm kiss to her forehead, and she sobs, again._

* * *

 

The girl’s eyes shifted down from Bones on the shrouds onto Silver. Randall was holding it against Jensen: the lousy rope, but Galloway knew that cordon bleu rigger only had the chance to fuck up the mizzen. Which he hadn’t done. And that was less unsettling than Vincent and John’s engrossment in Billy’s engagement.

And Galloway, being as non-intrusive as she was, stopped ten feet away from the king of pretence, waiting for him to quit feigning he didn’t notice her regard. It was only when Billy reached the yard, Silver turned to her, cocking an eyebrow.

“He’s like a monkey,” he chuckled.

“Ever seen a monkey?” Galloway moved closer.

“Um… not recently.”

“I see,” she licked her lips and looked at her boots before throwing yet another glance at Bones. “But while we are on the subject. It’s Vincent.”

Silver folded his arms on his chest and moved to ensconce, evincing commitment to the dialogue.

 “Is he concerned?” she spelled short.

“Ain’t we all a bit concerned after what happened,” John beckoned to the yard, skilfully slipping off the risky topic.

“Oh, cut it…” she uttered mildly scolding, yet in a tone rather level.

“To the best of my belief… well, you see,” he squinted, ducking closer. “I don’t know.”

 _Paltry_. The girl just stared at his face blankly, blinking, and heaved a sigh, “All right, let me paraphrase it.”

John nodded once.

“It doesn’t reck me what is there, or what was there, between the three of you, but shall I be worried?”  
“Nah,” he tossed his head. “But, Galloway, as if I would say yes if it were so…”

“No harm trying,” she shrugged and then added. “I wouldn’t trust him.”

“You have a personal circumstance with him.”

“Don’t you?”

 John closed one eye.

“Bear a brain, will you?”

He beckoned, humming a chuckle.

“And that matter with you and the privy... Smells foul.”

* * *

 

“I’ve carved it,” Randall greeted her in the galley with a handsomely crafted bird.

“Oh, perfect,” the girl beamed and reached for the piece of wood, but the man dodged his hand, “There’s someone to see you,” he articulated flatly.

Galloway frowned finally acknowledging someone’s presence behind her and almost jumped out of her trousers when she pivoted to see Nocks.

But her confoundment was not to be juxtaposed with the blinding terror dabbed across the pirate’s face. Behind Nocks, with eyes withering, stood Joji.

“I implore forgiveness, miss,” he began, not without a prompting on Joji’s part.

“’s fine,” she scowled, running an eye over Nocks, but found no observable damage. Joji’s neat workmanship.

“Forgive my discourteousness, miss. I am sorry for what I’ve done…” here Joji moved ever-so slightly, and Nocks hastened to build on, “and said. It was wrong of me, for…” the man’s eyes suddenly got round and he shifted his gaze from Galloway to Randall. “For… just cuz I can doesn’t read I should… and… um…”

As tricky as the whole event was to handle, spotting Randall with the corner of her eye, nodding, made her inhibit a giggle.

“I believe it’s never late for an apology, so...”

“Uh-hum,” Gal bobbed her head.

Albeit that, no one moved, and she looked at Joji, exploring what kind of response he was awaiting of her.

“Accepted,” she tried again, and this time the Asian pirate smiled.

He swiftly dragged Nocks out and Galloway peeked at Randall, who, doubtlessly, took a part, if not initiated, the whole thing, for the fervour in his eyes spoke volumes. 

“Thank you,” she softened.

 

Galloway sat down, done, twisting the bird Randall let her examine in her hands, and shut her eyes for a moment, “The fuck is even this ship?”

* * *

 

The first half an hour of the donkey work he was forced to perform, Bones pondered where exactly he had misstepped to now enjoy the level of morale the crew, riggers among other things, sported. But as monotonous and well-practised the task was, Billy felt the only native escort of it crawling upon him.

With the rope hissing against and licking his palms, the movements well honed and unalterable, he knew his mind would flurry into speculation, whether he wanted to obey or not. The succession of thoughts was slowly coursing through his head, inconsistent and evoked, tangling, splicing and twining – just like her hair twined into a braid. When the sun peeked out over the horizon, she would lace her fingers together and reach her arms towards the sails, stretching out. Sometimes her bones crackled and she would shake her head, agrin. Adorable. Next, she would let her fingers run through her hair, the loose braid coming undone.

Locks untressed – many brothel girl wore their hair that way, but his mother and sister only allowed for it at home - and Galloway’s mane in it native state scented of domestic informality, intimacy. He didn’t know if it was a premeditated device to display trust or an unconscious one. He wasn’t certain it was a sign at all… but he would like to believe so.

The girl would aptly smooth her hair before tying it in a low knot, using nothing – and to his amazement, it didn’t untie – and cover her head with the scarf. And with a mild smile, _very adorable_ , she looked at him – the ritual complete – recognising the fatigue in him calling to be alleviated, and they would go below the deck. Billy – to his hammock, and Galloway, despite his desire to see her do the same, - to the galley, to man her stations before the morning mess.

 

 _“God?”_  
“ _Yeah...”_  
 _“Thought you believed it to be a consoling lie...”_

_She frowned, looking to the side, “Don’t think I would say that...”_

Right, she never did say that _. It wasn’t her. She was never there on the Harbour Island keeping him company while he was getting seared. Only what he wanted to percieve._

_“You must be confusing me with someone else,” she went on. “But I reckon I’ll have to agree. It’s always nice to believe you don’t suffer in vain, but for a cause that’s inscrutable for the time being.”  
“Could also be used as a way to keep a rein on people: not many will dare to swine out if there’s justice of Heaven next off.”_

_“Or mercy…” she offered, shrugging._

 

Billy frowned, still focusing on the rigging. Could it be there was more to his wanting to have her around than him deeming she was safer that way? At the end of the day, knowing she was within earshot and getting excited to have her speaking to him were two different things. Whichever it was, Galloway had proven to be an interesting company, quite challenging. Provoking to search one’s soul. Or maybe it was only him.

_Oh, woman._

 

She possessed wits, she had intelligence, but she did lack a bit of sense, he believed. In her lay, with the abovementioned psyche, she would make more than just comfortable living in a far-away colony, fool the empire, somehow, anyhow... Do something she presently clearly lacked confidence for, and find herself at markedly lower risk than...

“We’re under attack!”

Billy stopped abruptly, fingers freezing over the sails, and slanted down, narrowing his eyes.

_Fuck we are._

He let go of the ropes. The сrums went pervading the deck.

And then it whacked him.

Rather hard to recognise for he had never heard her raise it so far, it was _her_ voice. And it was close. _  
_ His eyes raced across the shrouds, and _help him God_ he would try not to embark upon the killing spree before making it to the deck.

With all the haste in the universe he hurried down, and in a mysterious way didn’t fall, even though no one, even him, could courbette up in the yard like that and not get their neck wrung as a consequence.

“The _fuck_ are you doing?” he roared, almost sliding down the ropes to level with her. She glanced up at him, eyes bigger than the moon, but her foot reached down. “Don’t you bloody dare!”

Bones sharply lay hold of her arm, surveying the event of the deck below them, and summing it up as poor, squeezed her flesh even tighter.

“Crow’s nest, now!” he commanded, and Galloway faltered, unable to resist the urge to look down. Bones gave a pull at her arm, forcing her up. “Stay there, don’t fucking move, don’t go down.”

The girl peered at him, in the embrace of terror, and opened her mouth to let out nothing, but a wheeze. One of the few conversations in her life that wasn’t even a conversation when she couldn’t utter anything coherent.

“Up!” he bellowed again, and she felt his broad palm on the small of her back nudging.

 

It got unexpectedly harder to climb for her hands turned into crooked, withered branches. She couldn’t help looking down. Her substance and conscience clamoured for the firm wood under her feet and succour to her brothers respectively, but she knew only too well she couldn’t descend for Bones (who was already down and had just flipped someone over) would not approve (read, kill her dead). Moreover, she was alert to the fact her presence down there would only cause distraction to her men, while she wasn’t fit to bring in any significant assistance in fight.

Galloway didn’t even notice how she made it up to the crow’s nest, but the relief didn’t last long. Right when she, gripping on the wood for her dear life, craned her neck to glance down again, a cutlass slashed Joshua cross the chest, and the pirate fell to his knees.

A scream lodged in her throat, blocking the air. Through the blur in her eyes she made out Bones’ bulky frame plunging a knife in and out of someone with an unfailing fidelity, and Galloway moved back shakily, pressing her spine to the mast. Her head went reeling.

When she finally managed an inhale, the oxygen happened to be over the top, and the sail of pitch-black sky went swirling harder.

 

“Secure!”

_Over._

She breathed again, sobbing.

_Don’t fucking move._

She wouldn’t even if she wanted to -  with her fingers grabbing onto rough wood and refusing to let go she couldn’t afford to shift an inch forward to get a look over the deck right below her. But the still could make out the quarter.

Her glassy, wide eyes full of consternation, drifted down, and she blew a long breath. _Billy_.

* * *

 

“I saw it with my own eyes,” Bones glared at Vane. “The garrison on Harbour Island. Royal Marines, a full company of them. The Scarborough anchored. And a commander just waiting for the order to begin his assault against us and exterminate every last one. There is nothing imagined about the threat we all face, I assure you. And right now your only plan to reckon with it is to try and fight them head to head, each crew for themselves? Right now, Flint's plan is the only plan.”

Vane squinted at Billy.

“And how does the girl fit into this plan?”

“We took her home hoping to find reconciliation,” Bones’ thrust his chin up, confusedly arching a brow.

“Not the Ashe girl,” Charles stood up, looking about the cabin. “Your girl, the one sailing with your crew. I didn’t see her body, and she’s not among those in chains. So, where is she?”

“Nassau,” enunciated Billy at once.

“I heard a woman’s voice,” Vane twisted his head to peek at Bones with a sly smile.

The man didn’t answer.

“I nothing but want to have a talk with her.”

“You’ve made it hard to believe your word.”

“You don’t have to believe my word. But it’s either I bring her here, myself, or my crew finds her. Sooner or later. You choose.”

* * *

 

Galloway was sitting with her eyes shut.

It came as thunder,  “There’s a girl on board.”

The blood in her appeared to get terrified too: it all congested in her heart and her fingers froze down in a second.

“I won’t touch you. I won’t do you any harm,” the voice of the man, the captain, presumably, of those brutes, was loud and clear. A touch nasal. “Come on deck now, and no one will get hurt.”

“Don’t,” it was Muldoon.

Galloway cautiously leaned forward to see Vane coming up to him, and Muldoon shrinking at whatever he expressed.

“I know where you are,” he continued.

Well, of that she wasn’t sure, for he not once had glanced at her, not even in her direction.

“Don’t force me to ask my crew to get you to me,” he repaired to a ruse.

Gal didn’t move.

Vane rolled his eyes. _This fucking crew._

“The bosun said you can come down.”

* * *

 

The shakles were an unpleasant load.

Vane pushed the door open and she followed him into the quarters.

Galloway was aware they hadn’t let Bones out, and she caught sight of him straight away, but when Billy suddenly jolted to his feet, she wasn’t the only one to stagger: Vane flinched, stepping to the side. Jenks had put cuffs on Bones, replacing the ropes, and the bosun turned into much more veritable peril.  
“The hell?”

The girl’s head jerked up in panic: Bones was burning them down in turn with his look menacing.

“Oh,” she breathed out and the chains clanked as she reached to press the back of her palm to her nostril.

Vane slowly wrung his head and crinkled his nose at her.

Galloway took her hand away from her face for a second, and a trickle of blood dribbled down to her upper lip.

“Hey, I _did not_ touch her,” said Charles, with hands up displaying his palms.

The girl looked Billy in the eyes, shaking her head. Vane hadn’t touched her. She had had a rather unfortunate descent from her position.

Bones breathed out.

_Fair._

 “Sit,” Vane beckoned for Billy to calm down, and went round to Flint’s table to try the drawers. Fuck was he done waltzing round those _ladies_ : one felt it her right to teach him the meaning of the word ‘love’, the other couldn’t make it down the shrouds without fatalities. _When was Eleanor ever that fidgety?_

He drew a handkerchief – an artefact Vane’s ship carried not -  out of one of the drawers and strutted back to Galloway.

Beware, the girl put her hand forward, but the captain already was two feet away and not slowing down. He reached for her face and Galloway stumbled back, her eyes growing big. 

“I bear no ill will,” he said.

Her tensed face relaxed and she considered him blatantly.

“No ill will? How many people ended up dead in this siege?”

“No ill will to you,” he made an amendment to his statement.

“You slew men on this crew,” she informed.

“You care?”  
Bones pursed his lips when she translated her numb gaze onto him.

Galloway didn’t know what reaction the captain was trying to elicit, but she had accumulated a formidable experience in keeping her sangfroid in unfoldings alike.

“You wanted a word,” she looked down on the handkerchief as she folded it. If she was to be engaged into that conversation, she also wished it over as promptly as possible.

“Indulge me,” he beckoned to a chair.

Galloway wiped the blood, peeking at the seat. She always had good sea legs, and even wave-wetted deck was never an impediment, but her knees felt weak. She lowered herself on the chair facing the captain’s – the one Vane occupied himself.

“My name is Charles Vane,” he pronounced primly and, even to his surprise, thus had her total focus.

The girl parted her lips, tilting her chin, “You crew with Anne Bonny?”

Both pirates frowned at that.

“I used to, why?”

“Idle inquiry,” she answered bluntly. It was hard not to feel victimised in the given predicament, but the familiar palsy routinely switched on the nerve.

Vane shrugged it off, moving forward in his chair, “Your name? Miss...”

“It’s Galloway.”

“It’s a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” she stared him dead in the eyes and her voice rung with coldness.

“So, why exactly did you decide to trust Eleanor Guthrie.”

“I don’t.”

“Oh, really?” he sneered.

“She betrayed almost every person she had _dealings_ with, you included. Why would I be an exception?” she felt putting the man in a tough spot was a reciprocal move.

“You are well informed, aren’t you?”  
“Secrets don’t stay secrets long here,” she mused, stirring an eyebrow.

“And yours?” he replied in a similar vein.

“Given that you’re asking me all these questions, I assume it was not maintained in good confidence,” she lowered her head to her shoulder.

“The bosun here is putting forward an assumption that...”

“The English are out for you?” the girl completed the sentence.

“You share the assessment?”

“Nassau has been a concern of the crown for decades...”  
“Not much of a news. Why now?”  
“Will you excuse me for a stupid question,” she swallowed, there was no hint of sarcasm in her voice. “You seem to know whom to ask, but you don’t know why, do you?”

 “I was lucky Miss Guthrie let it fall she had, not in her discretion, failed an English lady continuing in Nassau, who is somehow pertinent to the matter, but I’m still left wondering how.”

“Not in her discretion?” that wording tasted like an insult.

“She miscalculated and told her father about the English lady, who might be of interest to the Navy, and I continue wondering why.”  
Had she looked at Bones – disconcerted by Vane’s conduct – she would’ve learned Charles acting was a touch out of character (a bounty, considering Galloway was being surlier than the pirate), but even thus she would be unlikely to appreciate it. The man had personally killed Joshua, and his ex-crew had personally, in cold blood killed Logan, so Galloway was rather surprised there was a measure of poise retained.

The blood had long stopped, and she let a finger slip between the folds of the handkerchief.

“Her father failed me then? I struggle to understand what’s in it for him.”

“Captain Hume, the commander of the Scarborough,” Billy uttered gravely, but the glare of his which could only be meant to scorch, softened, “put him under arrest on hunch of his implication in smuggling pirated goods. If Guthrie knew as much as he knows,” at that he motioned at Vane,” it stands to reason he tried to sell you to Captain Hume, clueless what you mean to them.”

Galloway depressed her eyes.

 “My father had been guarding the operation in Nassau from his seat in London. Not necessarily supporting the ... piracy,” she sighed and flicked her eyes at Vane again. “More of bucking against the Navy, honestly. It’d been happening for a little less than ten years when someone got a line on it. Emerging right around that time there were rumours about the local governor, and it was a splendid opportunity to press luck and try to tame the Islands once again. With all the information my father had, it was more than just easy. There were men who sought to get into my father’s confidence to access to it. They tried it a civil way, then a less civil one...”

“What the fuck do _you_ have to do with that hell?”  
“I was a compelled participant of the less civil... attempt. And my father is gone because of me now.”

Billy sank his eyes.

Vane merely nodded, “And now they have the information on hand, I figure?”

“I destroyed everything. I’m not that stupid.”

“What’s the threat then? All we now face is one ship off the Harbour Island coast...”

“One ship that ports in Boston, a ship that is now here not solely because the captain fancied a change of climate. It follows somebody’s orders, and of that I know nothing,” she turned to Billy for a mere breath. “That garrison on the Harbour Island is not there for me. To them I don’t mean anything, I’m not their prey. They are here for you. It is just a sign that things are going backward. The Islands are inhabited by “the nation of thieves”. Weren’t you always under the threat? It was a matter of time and luck...”

“And your father?”  
“Partially, but also Muss Guthrie and Captain Flint. My father is not there anymore to help matters anyhow, and when I was leaving London, there were stories appearing about a squadron that might be, right this moment, getting formation to set sail for Nassau. Do you consider that a threat significant enough? Yet now, when there’s a chance that Flint’s reconciliation comes about, there’s a chance that squadron never leaves London. If there’s even an appearance of stability in Nassau, London won’t let the dogs loose and it will all be resolved with no significant losses on either party. The war may never materialize, they don’t want to lose the men and the ships over it…”

“But what if Hume managed to put on notice that you’re in Nassau?”  
“I might spur them. The core of it,  I’m not _that_ significant in this mess, albeit there’re people who desire me to recompense for the result of their unfortunate effort to claim my father’s dealings. But it won’t require ten ships to track me down. Not really. That will be only my problem then. But if there’s no reconciliation, we are all arse naked, and the chances for all of us are shity at best.”  
“If Nassau was just  a pin in a map for you, the choice is somewhat shity.”

“Not that shity,” she shrugged, though Billy’s face looming in her side vision was telling her he still was happy to argue. “At all events, as things stand, this inroad of yours...”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I know everything about violence for the sake of a _substantial_ cause and what men are capable of when their vanity and pride are wounded,” she bent the brows sternly.

“You’re under a delusion you understand things…”  
“She does. You came to collect the ship that you think is entitled to you, but they won’t care what is whose, why would they care... It’s a different war”

Charles narrowed his eyes, scanning Billy’s face. He then moved his head back and took a breath in to say something, but the ship gave a prolonged wail and reeled, sending books down from the shelves.

“The fuck,” Vane was out of his chair in a second.

He didn’t event glance at Galloway and Billy before leaving the cabin, and they numbly stared after him.

“What is it?” she cheeped.

“No idea.”

 

 

Bones was silent. She knew he was angry at her. _Only fair._

Galloway brought her fingers to her face, lightly touching her nose to test how sore it was.

“What were you doing up there?”

She looked at him at once. Bewildered at how unannoyed he sounded, despite the locked jaw he had been keeping.

“Randall said Bobby pilfered his leg. And hid it in the crow’s nest.”

“Was it there?”

“No,” she bit her lower lip. “I think it’s on the mizzen.”

“You could’ve asked someone for help.”  
“I did. I asked Joshua, but he said he was afraid of heights. I didn’t want to admit that ... I am, too.”

He flicked his eyes up at her. _Out of everything…_

Galloway sat with her head hung, chewing on the insides of her lower lip.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

Billy caught his breath. It didn’t irk him anymore, her apologising for her mere bloody existence, it ached.

 “Jesus,” he spoke calmly, standing up. “As I understand, if it weren’t for you, Flint – all of us - wouldn’t have been that familiar with the state of affairs up there. And you couldn’t foresee Guthrie fucking you up. _You know_ you’re a victim of the situation, how could you still be blaming yourself?”

Feeling her line of thought might help, he supposed.

“I’m a victim who only made it worse. I just wish he was still alive. He would’ve handled it.”

“He’s not dead because of _you_.”

“They wouldn’t have killed him for the correspondence solely,” she looked up at him coming closer. “It’s only combined with the rancour of being bereaved of the immunity. I’m just sorry we turned out too _principled_ that it ended up affecting so many,” _and for personally causing you the surplus of trouble._

“Everyone is principled, here. In a good way, in a bad way. We’re all the reason of what’s coming. We’re all affecting it, we all have done wrong things in our life. But I don’t believe you’ve done enough wrong to have me pounding it home to you more than once,” he smiled, squatting down in front of her.

“You simply want me sedated,” she offered a soft smile of apology back, tipping her head a little.  
“Sometimes,” Billy confessed, looking into her eyes. He took a deep breath, “Galloway, I’ve learned it hard way: you won’t make it if you keep blaming all the wrong things on yourself.”

She contemplated his aspect and stiffened her jaw. As if he wasn’t blaming wrong things on himself. The image of him on that barrel, sitting not too far from Morley’s body, was still vivid in her memory. And the way he held her face, terrified to have hurt her with the rope. He saved her life that day, but still was fluttered over a small bruise.

They all did it. The captain blamed himself. And Miranda. Gates had blamed himself. Her father had, too.

 

_Edward Faulkner sits in an armchair in his parlour, motionless. The setting sky spills a long ray inside, but his daughter’s sleep is undisturbed. He used to find her dozing outside, in the little back yard they had, when he came home. Soothed to sleep by the discreet warmth of the summer and the murmur of the leaves, with a book or some papers she unawares scattered around._

_Today she lies on the couch in front of him, his undivided attention. Wrapping her arms around herself, with her legs pulled up to her bottom, she hasn’t read herself to sleep. The trial was two days ago._

_His dear girl. She grew out of being a child years ago, but she was his child. She led him by the hand through everything they’d suffered together, lilting bird that never went dejected, for him. This bright little woman who grew up, but never lost the spark and the invincible spirit. And he didn’t manage to protect her. His precious daughter._

_Her life is injured irretrievably._

_Edward Faulkner knows what will follow, his misgivings always deliver. He wishes they didn’t. He never knew what was to happen, but he felt it coming. If only he shielded her from it all, but what they were capable of he couldn’t even... Then, he didn’t know what to expect. Now he is certain._

_It is going to be dire tough, but he sees no other way._

_He wasn’t there for his friend ten years ago, he still blames himself. And he won’t let him down again.  James McGraw is a good man. He won’t let her down._

_She has to be far from these people, and he knows she would make it. Even that far. Nature and nurture fuse in her just right. He has all the faith in her. She is his faith._

_Mr Faulkner stands up and leaves the room to come back with a heavy blanket. Elizabeth is fast asleep and doesn’t wake up when he covers her._

_He sinks to his knees next to the couch, and kisses her on the forehead._

_“I’m sorry, petal,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry.”_

_He will sit on the floor, next to her, until she is awake. His child._

 

Billy lowered his eyes, seeing her turning inward again. The impacts of sleep deprivation were quite destructive to one’s mind, and being alone projected influence pernicious at best.  But she wasn’t alone, not anymore.

It was a new urge to experience, but in that moment of stress and doubt he found himself suspecting some form of comforting contact was necessary.

 

He relied on the first thing that came to mind, the one she seemed to deem solacing.

 

The girl didn’t wake to it at first. Maybe because of her inner turmoil, or maybe because of how gentle it was. His skin warm and coarse. It was a sharp contrast to feel his hand – _him_ – so tender, when not so long before she watched him lodge his dagger into people. Billy just held three fingers of her hand free of the handkerchief, and her stomach felt empty.

Galloway pursed her lips, her chin went a bit up.

His hand was large, not that she hadn’t noticed before, but now, given the opportunity to explore, she shied to move.

Oh, she knew her brow gave her away with that tiny flinch.

 

It felt novel: not wanting to look away afraid to let someone see the lethargy in her eyes when she couldn’t bridle it anymore. Her sealed lips came out into a sad smile.

His thumb caressed her pointer finger.

But the door clicked and Bones’ face toughened.

He rose to his feet and she followed, going back to feeling too short to be called a human.

“Out,” said Vane’s man – the one who had confiscated her dagger and put shackles on her wrists -  as he grabbed her forearm, pulling her to the door. The girl jerked. _As if I wouldn’t know where to go._

“Hey,” Bones was fast to flare up.

“Shut it,” the pirate did let go off the girl, but generally because she almost wrung out of his grip.

_Next time someone grabs me, God knows, I will graduate to slaying._

Billy didn’t count. He brought his tentative fingers to her elbow, supportively holding it there as they walked out.

* * *

 

“Therefore I've placed him under arrest,” bawled Ashe’s messenger. “This trial and its resulting sentence will be swift, just, and final.”

Bones wrung his head to face Galloway.

“And it will reestablish beyond any shadow of a doubt that the rule of law lives in Carolina, that the men and women of this place will not shrink from you, from any of you, from any like you, and that the death of piracy in the New World has never been nearer than today.”

He couldn’t tell if she was praying or damning the whole world.

“At the conclusion of this trial, if your ship remains, I will seize or sink her.”

 

“I choose sinking,” she whispered, hiding her face in her arms folded on her knees.

After a moment of silence Bones spent looking at nonplussed assaulters, he breathed out and said, ducking his head to her, “Well, _I_ know how to survive overboard, apparently,” she chuckled. “But do you?”  
“No,” she moved, squishing her cheek against her forearm, to look at him. “Perhaps that’s the point.”

 

 

 

 

“You were right.”

Galloway opened her eyes.

“Right about what?” Billy’s shoulder moved a little, the fabrics of their shirts grazed. He was looking up at Vane standing above them. His cheek and jaw, bluish in the moonlight, were speckled with blood. She had offered him the kerchief she’d been clenching in her fist, but he refused.

“They can't tell the difference between you and I,” he uttered, as if the prolonged conversation would’ve gone to waste otherwise. “Nassau is strongest when she's feared. And if what promises to happen here tomorrow actually happens, a trophy made of one of her most notorious captains, she may never be feared again. So I suggest we do something about this. I suggest we get him the hell out of there.”

 

“And good evening to you,” Silver uttered a groan, crouching down. Bones was forced to look away from Galloway – she peered at him, alarmed at Vane’s proposal, her lips parted – and shift his legs to let John accommodate his.

“Where’s Randall?” demanded the girl. She’d managed to spot Joji and Decker earlier, Muldoon had made his survival clear as well, De Groot and Howell were chained nearby: she knew the status of everyone whom she cared for (and for whom she cared not), but Silver and Randall…

John wouldn’t answer.

Bones knitted his eyebrows, his mouth fell slightly open, “Jesus.”

 

Galloway was skimming John’s face again and again, as if looking for something in his features, but Silver just produced a long blink, lowering his head, exhaling.

The air came out of her lungs in a tremulous gasp and she clenched her teeth.

 

The chain of her cuffs rattled against the floor and Bones felt her shift.

Her hand was furtively grasping the breeches on her thigh. The girl was breathing through her nose, jittery, and Billy watched her glassy eyes flying over Vane’s men guarding them. And he felt for her palm, predictably cold.

 

He gingerly covered Galloway’s fingers, and she eased the grip, slowly turning her hand to wrap her five around his thumb. Her eyes drifted closed again, the chin jumped. Billy’s calloused fingers enveloped her knuckles, and she held fast. Gates would’ve approved.

* * *

 

Bones didn’t know how much time had gone by. He was staring at the sky that didn’t rush to change colour, entertaining himself by occasionally glowering at Vane’s crew.

It could have been an hour; it could have been two, it could have been half.

His crew were awake, watching the invaders walk on the deck as if they owned it. By their measure they did. Vane wasn’t out of the captain’s cabin much, just as his quartermaster, and Billy would rather he had already undertaken whatever lunacy he had in mind. Better have him off the vessel...

Bones  swallowed, passing his eyes up the mizzenmast, when Silver’s foot abruptly slid forward to knock against his boot. Billy gave the cook a considering look, tipping his chin questioningly.  The corners of Silvers mouth turned up ever so slightly, but he wasn’t looking exactly at Billy.

Her shoulder pressed against his arm he had found a sensation unfamiliar, but it hadn’t taken long to get used to the constant warmth adhering to his side.

Billy decided to check.

 

He only saw the tip of her nose, the forehead and the mischievous hairs finding their way out from under her scarf that was successfully sliding down. Her head wasn’t a weight significant enough for him to notice the newly added pressure, but he couldn’t figure how he’d missed the moment when their hidden hold enfeebled. 

The steady breath above the cut on his biceps confirmed his inkling and relief washed over him. Galloway was asleep.

All the nights she had stayed sleepless, all the sunsets and sunrises, all the stars she had counted, the hours she had spent cruising the deck, and there she found peace.  Captive, chained and confined to the wood of the deck, thought freshly swabbed, must be admitted. With the future holding either being seized or sunk. On arguably the most rigid shoulder she could find: Billy knew no matter how hard he tried to unbrace the muscles, it would hardly get notably softer, by any stretch.

Bones glanced up at John, letting a slow smile shadow his lips.

There was a sheer smell of boiled potatoes to her hair, and the native scent of herbs.

“We are in for some luck, ain’t we,” he heard Dooley chuckle in a hushed voice.


	16. XVIII. p.1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is no good, but cheers

_“Billy,” she murmurs into his ear, her smallish hand strokes his shoulder. “Billy, love, wake up.”_

_“Umm...” he rolls over, pushing the covers down his chest._

_“Come on, love.”_

_“Um-hum,” he nods drowsily, levels himself up on his elbows, but doesn’t unglue his eyes. He keeps still, waiting to hear his mother go: he has just created a flawless impression of readiness for takeoff, hasn’t he? Another second and he’ll plop back down, before the covers aren’t too cool._

_He also knows she won’t leave that easy. This trick of his never works._

_“Breakfast is waiting,” she pecks him on the forehead._

_The bed creaks a note when her weight lifts off the mattress. Her clothes whisper and she reaches the door in two muffled steps._

_He opens one eye. The sun pours into his room and he can see a sharp line of shade on the wall. It’s spring. But the air is barely warmer than it was around Christmas and the hisses of caller wind send shivers down his body when he throws the covers to the side._

_Billy shuts his eyes again. Once a day will come and he will spend it sunrise to sunrise in bed. And no one will ferret him out._

I’m not asking a lot of life ** _,_** _he hums, chuckling, and lowers his feet onto the floor._

_He lazily spreads the blanket behind himself still sitting, trying to stretch out the waking energy, and then bounces a couple of time to hear the bed natter. A dangerous stunt to pull, but he has been testing the old friend to destruction for the last few months and she still has plenty of fight in her._

_He bends his head back – for a change – entering the sun-lit kitchen._

_“Morning,” he rasps out to the broad back welcoming him as he approaches the table._

_The man simply nods._

_“Here, Billy, sit,” Mrs Manderly smiles at her son, gesturing to his seat. A bowl of porridge, four eggs and tea._

_“Thank you,” the boy dimples up, leaning over to fish out a piece of bread resting in the middle of the table._

_“Rising late today.”_

_The spoonful of porridge hovers before his lips as he blinks up at his father. Half of his face is screened with a large paper, the big blue eyes under wrinkly lids rapidly slip along the lines._

_“Yes,” corroborates Billy, shrugging._

_No response._

_“I think should do something about his bed, darling,” Mrs Manderly lowers herself on a chair facing her husband and moves the bread closer to her son. “He will either dismantle it one day, simply breaking the footboard. Or the whole feeble thing will merely collapse under him. It is only the matter of what comes first – another inch or another pound.”_

_The papers rustle folded, and Mr Manderly lays the reading aside – next to his breakfast, yet undisturbed._

_“Before long you’ll be alerting us to the dust on top of the cabinets...”_

_“He already does, darling. We dusted the clock in the living room yesterday. Courtesy of Billy.”_

_The man considers Billy up and down and a genial smile fades in on his withered face._

_“We’ll fix it,” he says. “The porridge left in the pot is for you: I notice you haven’t overlooked it.”_

_Billy only smirks in the cup, taking a pull, and raises his brows. Of course he hasn’t._

_“Where’s Lucy?” done with the porridge, he gets up to scrub the leftovers._

_“Oh, she’s come down with the flu, love,” coos Mrs Manderly._

_“Oh...” the boy turns round to inspect Lucy’s vacant seat at the table._

_“Must be because of yesterday...”_

_“Right, the weather was foul,” adds Mr Manderly._

_“Want me to leaflet her share today?” he sucks on his thumb, sitting back down.  
“Well, I don’t think...” the mother shifts her glance from her son to her husband._

_“It’s alright,” of course it is not as all right as he wants it to sound, and he would rather burrow in after his shift and..._

_“I absolutely do not,” retorts his father.  
“A couple of streets won’t hurt.”_

_“Billy, are you sure?” Mrs Manderly nibbles on her lower lip, piping up._

When did you ever not want me to do shit? _But before he even thinks of softening it to present as an answer to his parents, he is cut off._

_“I want you home at two, no later,” the man scans the boy’s face worriedly. “We’ve got to fix your bed.”_

_“Right, father,” Billy gulps down, stubbornly peering at the food._

_His knuckles softly tap against white-painted wood of a door._

_“Hey...” he pops his head in. “May I?”  
“Hey, Billy,” Lucy smiles, sitting up on her bed. “Come in,” she puts her book aside and smoothes the duvets down. _

_“Oh, if it weren't for how you look, I’d bet you’re playing possum to just stay in bed and read...” he chuckles, sitting down at her foot. Her tiny nose is red and, apparently, stuffy, for she smiles at him with her lips parted._

_“Maybe you should do that, Billy, and stay with me, and read. Haven’t seen a book in your hands in years,” she teases.  
“That is a shameless exaggeration,” not years, certainly, but maybe somewhere round... twelve months.  But he scarcely feels ashamed: why should he, reading is not in the scope of his interests currently, but that’s not all doom and gloom. _

_“I don’t really mind it. At least you’re giving me the time to catch up with your genius,” she beams when it makes him laugh._

_“Take your time, Lucy,” he plays along._

_“Will he come to enquire after your health?”_

_“I don’t know, Billy,” she purses her lips, growing upset. “I hope.”_

_“Then he will.”_

_“Oh, don’t be afraid to tell me how you feel it,” she pleads, the corners of her brows sink. “You think he will not?”_

_“Lucy, the only thing I’m afraid of is that he actually comes – picture the flowers – and our father doesn’t let him in,” Billy makes big eyes and grins, displaying his even teeth._

_“Oh, that’s a chance...”_

_“Oh, Lucy...”_

_He will come. Billy knows it, and tries to subdue the nagging thought that someone is stealing his sister from him._

_And then he looks at her: cheered up only a minute in their reassuring conversation. She’s only happier that way. And, in the end, how can you steal a sister from someone? No way in hell they will ever out each other out of their heads._

_“I think I shall go, Lucy,” he says, glancing at the clock on the wall._

_“Don’t be long...”_  
_“Don’t worry, I won’t. Will be home before you finish two chapters,” he chuckles, standing up._  
 _“No deal,” she shakes her head, “I only have one left.”_

_“Want me to get you anything? Another book?”  
“No, I’m fit.”_

_“Sure?” a nod. “See you, then.”  
“Love you, sock.”_

_“Love you too, Lucy.”_

* * *

 

_He flings his head back to feel the neck crack a little._

_Not a lot of success, whatever he says. The thickness of leaflets barely thinned._

_People just stroll, pace, run and amble past him. Two times he got shoved._

Lucy must’ve eaten the Alexandrian Library in its entirety already.

_Dad won’t be overly happy with it. He looks down on the pamphlets and weights the stack in his hand._

_He’ll stay longer, he ponders. But fist he has to see to the queer feeling in the pit of his stomach._

_“Hey, big boy, what will it be for you?”  
“A loaf, as usual,” Billy smiles at the baker. _

_“Oh, just a moment then, son, I’ll get you one fresh out of the oven, eh?”_

_“Thank you.”_

_He looks about the modest bakery: golden loaves and perfectly round rolls, the appetizing, warm savour, the delicate crispy and sugary smell that makes his gut wail in crave._

_He dips his hand in his pocket._

_“You know what... I’ll have a... um,” he bends over to scrutinise the buns hiding behind long ruddy baguettes, “a bun... or two...”_

_His arm stretches forward, the coins tiny in his open palm, but he can’t get his eyes off the tempting batch._

_The baker chuckles, emerging from the store room, but his face freezes. A ruptured ‘Watch out’ breaks from his lips._

_But it’s too late. Billy feels another coin land in his hand, and he doesn’t have to look at it to know it – a shilling._

_His arm jerks in one mighty impulse he sends to it, and the coins go flying into the air._

_One of the gang snatches his arm, and Billy breaks away only to realise his other fist swings into the man’s face full force._

_He doesn’t know why he does it. He’s never fought before. Not like that._

_A black eye here and a scratch there, but nothing more than a foolish amiable wrestle with his mates..._

_The panic surges inside and he’s choking on it. The pamphlets are scattered all over the floor, stomped and muddied._

_They outnumber him, and he’s way too scared yet of the volumes of his own strength he’s just discovered. Yet he puts up a hell of a fight, yelling nothing but warning for the baker not to step in. He is too old._

_The recollection will only come months later, but what got him blank was a blow coming from behind._

_He came out of it, and it was the morning._

_The morning he woke up in chains._

* * *

 

That would be a new thing for her. Waking up in chains.

At least the sun wasn’t offensive that gruelling morning. The clouds flocked together, eclipsing the glaring light, and the rare patches of the sky were almost like azure stains on a milky white sheet.

“Is she alive?”

Billy’s eyes drifted down onto one of Vane’s crew,  “Why’d you care?”

For a reason that alarmed Bones, Captain Vane had instructed his crew that the girl was no to be touched, on no account. And that also endowed Billy with the confidence that the morons had no title to as much as look at Galloway.

“No, really, Billy,” whispered someone behind his back. “Is she?”  
Billy just nodded, looking down.

Not that the questions bore no validity.

The girl had been sliding down his arm and at one point he simply had to shift her, else she would’ve got his blood on her face and her whole body on the deck. And he’d pulled her up –limp and soft, boneless in his arms, like a month old kitten smitten by the most unflurried and placid of sleeps. The cuffs were less than helpful, but he stood that little incommodity well, only hoping her hair wouldn’t tangle in his shackles for his forearm pillowed her head while she lay on his lap.

He never registered the tension in his muscle, let alone the intensity of it, until ten minutes in he felt his body go numb neck down. She wouldn’t have stirred had they been in the middle of Battle of Naseby, but he still was careful not to move.

Galloway was a different story. It felt like had she gone an hour more without sleep, she would’ve spilled into liquid. Completely slack and completely unaware of space and surroundings, say nothing of the blissful immodesty. They would’ve served an ingot for another ancient marble sculpture, only Billy’s arms were a touch too awkward to be an Achaean hero.

That was the reason of their asking. It was barely possible to discern her breath for anyone but Bones – the disquietude of the men was not for nothing.

“She is,” Billy breathed out, boring into that tiny wrinkle on her forehead that refused to leave.

“She’s lovely when she’s asleep,” chuckled Dooley.

 _Lovely_.

Yes, it was a benediction to see her asleep, but it wasn’t even remotely lovely to realise what measure of exhaustion led to that rest that made her indistinguishable from Juliet, at the worst of her times.

He sensed DeGroot’s slantwise regard upon them, but didn’t endue him with any reciprocity. Might be if he stroked the eyebrows, the wrinkle would smooth...

_You make sure we don’t forget how assertive you are even when you’re asleep, right?_

The corner of his mouth quirked.

 

_“Do you even know how to handle it?”_

_“I’ll make sense of it,” she wrapped her fingers around the handle and it fit perfectly._

Sure you will. _She let out a fugitive sigh._

 

Not afraid to use it. Had used it. Would use it, if pressed.

The girl had changed. Since their first, rather short, encounter. For one, she wasn’t a girl on deck anymore, she was the girl. Slightly touched, still, but she was only purer for it.

Time showed she recognised the importance and virtue that avoiding exhibiting one’s skills had.

Bones still wasn’t sure whether he’d been handed down a blessing or it’d been a fortunate contingency that he ever came to learn that. And that he came to experience the intrinsic salubrity of  her company, her presence evocative of homey tendresse.

 _Lovely_. He didn’t like that one too much either, but it was a better start.

 

Galloway slumbered through it all: Billy talking sense into Silver, Charles Vane coming and going, Charles Vane having to deal with Muldoon, whom Billy sent to fetch the diary, for he himself didn’t feel like abandoning his position; Silver trying to brighten up Billy’s mood, Billy and DeGroot rolling their eyes at him, Mr Scott joining them a few seconds later, and Silver remarking - before he shut up for somewhat more than a minute - that there finally was a bodily sense to vindicate the resemblance between Billy and the girl. Their right nostrils were rimmed with blood.

Billy took a nice deep breath.

There was much more to vindicate the resemblance between them, and most of it wasn’t physical: they both, for that matter, for a reason or for no reason, were among the most frequent choice of people for Silver to pest, and they both showed covetable forbearance.

Bones only had a very vague perception of what his face looked like, he hadn’t seen a mirror in a while and all that was left for him was trusting the reflection in the water. And it couldn’t be that that ripply close-cut melon came close to Galloway’s aspect. Her face was branded in his mind, the face that made him adept at being in constant alertness to non-verbal signals. The subtle meanings of a twitch of the eyebrow, the inkling behind an upward jerk of the chin, the flare of the nostrils...

The blood had dried down hours ago, he wouldn’t risk wiping it. _Oh, she’d better not be lying about the origin of it..._

“Well, now it _is_ about rescuing Flint. And all of us,” intoned Silver. Vane had just disembarked: Jenks announced it to the crews.

“Sobeit Vane fails.”

“I know you ain’t commonly optimistic, but...”

“If they are both dead, we are either killed by the militia or these gentlemen, when it sinks home there’s nothing to be had here…”

“Vane said his men won’t suffice to sail the ship...”

“Do you think the crass prigs won’t come up with a means to find the most craven of us to flip?”

John frowned. _They might_. Billy arched an eyebrow at him.

The girl stirred.

Her eyes fluttered open just a slit, and she closed them again, blissfully drowsy, casually rolling over onto her side. Or trying to.

The couple of hours of sleep were nowhere near sufficient and she didn’t give it a second thought at first:  slumbering back. But the bedding seemed unfamiliar, the wrists surprised her with a dull stinging pain, and she opened her eyes again.

“Oh, shite,” she breathed out when John’s face gained sharpness.

“And good morning to you too,” he returned a smile that quickly morphed into a chuckle when Galloway hastened to get herself up, “Calm, calm.”

She peered at Bones, mooneyed, and he contemplated her gradually savvy...

“Jesus, I’m so sorry,” she said in a voice tinted with slight hoarseness, rubbing a side of her face. “I don’t… how… oh, I’m so sorry.”

Billy had a good mind to say ‘ _I’m not’_ , but he just shook his head. Finally relieved of the ‘burden’, he pulled his knees up. Galloway fiddled with the tail of her braid and, sighing desperately, let it be – attempering that explosion of mane was feckless.

“As you love to be sussed, Captain Vane left for Charlestown to save Flint from the gallows,” posted John.

“...and all differences fade away the moment any two pirates are confronted by a civilization,” she yawned, pressing her fingers to her eyes in hopes it would add a bit of wakefulness.

“Indeed.”

“Why are we still chained then?”

Silver looked at Bones, appealing for support, but the man blinked, slanting his head:  it was Galloway who had his support.

 “Brilliant,” she sniffled, turning to glance over the crew, while John went on recounting everything she’d missed, but she cut him off abruptly, “Hey.”

Galloway clawed Billy’s arm and he flinched – it was the wounded arm – but shortly followed her look.

“He’s bleeding,” she said louder, scrambling to her knees.

Bones held onto her forearm, bringing her to sit back down, but straightened up himself.

Howell sat under one of the cannons, pressing a crumpled piece of fabric to Decker’s side. The surgeon sighed.

“It’s all I can do, they won’t let me...”

“He’s gonna bleed to death,” she almost wailed, and Billy fostered another effort to keep her in place. There’d been a portentous feeling simmering inside since she’d opened her eyes.

“I won’t, Galloway,” croaked Decker, forcing a weak smile over his pale lips.

“Why don’t they... We can’t just sit... What are we waiting for?”

Bones felt her eyes burning through his skin, but he kept staring at the coxswain, terrified at how he’d managed to disregard it. How they all had. The girl had alerted the whole crew, and a low whisper went spreading across the gun deck. She’d alerted Vane’s crew, too.

“Do you have a surgeon?” voiced Mr Scott.

“Not anymore,” reported Jenks, turning away.

“Then let ours...”

“What is the bitching all about?” a tall pirate thumped down the ladder, followed by a full company of uncombed stinkards.

“Our surgeon needs…”

“You have a problem with that?” the pirate cut Mr Scott off the second time, coming up to Bones.

“Listen…” spat Billy, but the man squatted down to silence him.

“ _You_ ,” he enunciated into Galloway’s face, “have a problem with that?”

Her cheek muscles flexed and Bones’ firm grasp above her wrist was practically cutting of the circulation in her hand. The cornstalk was hardly conveying the impression of a self-referential good will ambassador.

“I repeat, does the lady have a problem with that?” the pirate beckoned to Decker.

“Yes,” she grinded out.

“I’m coming to rescue then.”

He merely stood up, seizing her arm on the way.

The man was a few inches shorter than Bones – they found it out the following second.

“Leave it,” hummed the pirate. “’s just amicable discussion.”

“Then discuss here,” suggested Billy in a dreadful voice.

“Move. She was the one asking for us.”

The girl jerked behind him.

“Don’t fucking dare…” he uttered through his teeth clenched. The Walrus crew were rising around them in a silent and clearly malevolent unanimity. The girl ventured to resile again, and Billy felt rupturing pain in the base of his neck, a blow that sent him back onto the wood, and a dirty boot delivered it to his jaw.

The girl went down with him, owing to their desperate clinging to one another.

She didn’t have a chance to gasp at the sight of blood on Billy’s lips.

 

Bones seized the pirate’s leg with his free hand, but a barrel of a pistol kissed his skull. Her forearm was slipping out of his grasp, the nails hopelessly etching his skin.

 Then Silver fell down next to him, his nose bleeding.

Guns cocked through the clatter and row of the crew revolting.

“Think twice,” hollered DeGroot, but one more jerk and they ripped her out from Billy’s grasp.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Galloway lost track of space for a moment when the pirate almost effortlessly flung her over his shoulder, redeeming her struggles to tumble over.

The stomach hurt, squeezed.

Bones was wresting to get up, his head shaking with rage and aversion, the pulse roared. The voices of his brothers flooded his head. It all was unwinding too fast, they all failed to cut the crap of what was going on, no matter how hard they tried; it all was unwinding too fast – and he was adept in such settings, that well-trodden path of action when it was unwinding too fast. It always went too fast, any battle, but how they all turned useless and misfit now. Some of them hit the deck straight away, knocked down by Vane’s man, some offered greater resistance...

Galloway didn’t make a sound, and it sent their blood boiling. The whole crew suddenly realised they all had a soft spot for her audacity, and seeing her... verbally resigned seemed distorted.

Billy’s eyes lingered on the pirate’s back as he carried her up the ladder, and hilt of the dagger – her bloody dagger – peeked from under his vest, fastened to his belt.

 

Albeit her struggle – the unremitting, yet unhappy attempts to counter the assault - was extinguished at origin, she would keep going. The crew were erupting into a great tumult, but the sounds went fading in her mind.

He eased his arm that was holding her by the middle, and Galloway slumped down with a dull thunk. Her mouth fell open in a voiceless cry as she curled up in pain. At last at least one part of her felt awake, and it was the side.  

“The fuck are you doing?” thundered Jenks. “The captain was clear about her.”

“First we don’t touch the Ashe girl, then we sit in a fort, then we don’t touch this,” the man shrugged, sincerely annoyed. Galloway tried to lever herself up, her arm stinging form wrist to shoulder, but despite the trembling of the wounded limb, she still managed to sit up. _Not broken._ “And why exactly? Was this one of noble birth or importance, she wouldn’t be here. Flint left her. And I ain’t killing her, if you’re so fussed about the captain. Are we even sure he’s getting back?” the pirate pointed at the peaky outline of the town.

“Leave her.”

“Oh, piss off. Just a whore: what’s she here for, then? I won’t be the first, aye? It won’t hurt, right, love?” the girl was crawling back. _Yes, do please add insult to injury. Whore, is it? Not the wittiest way to revile and bandy about._ She’d heard better. She clenched her teeth, giving no sign of even slightly trembling limbs. There was the last hope – that man Vane left in charge. “No damage, no one will even notice.”

Jenks looked the girl up and down – a glimpse of reliance in her eyes – and only saw the futility of further argument. He waived, turning his attention to the still revolting crew.

“You gonna answer for it yourself,” he dropped, walking away.

It wasn’t the first act of abominable cruelty she found herself the centre of, but it never seized to amaze her how impudicity had no margin. A few non-iridescent actualities made it painfully self-explanatory that she was to come out of it either with her life or with her dignity. What was left of it, anyway. But she certainly was not going to lose both.

He was slow to come up to her. He savoured each second of it.  Galloway took her moment to examine him in limb and carcass before her breath got caught as he took her by the throat. Comprehension blurred a little, she found, when one was being smothered, and the hard collision of her back with the mast was a relief: the grip eased. He kept his hand on her neck, pressing her to the wood, still a relief: the air felling her lungs. And even the ugly face above hers, his eyes deeming with lust trying to soak her up, the stench of him weren’t as browbeating as he intended. Not very. She made her choice.

“It’s gonna be a bit of a performance, hope you don’t mind,” he flexed the muscle, ready to frustrate any attempts to kick or struggle out of his arms. They always kicked, they always struggled, and he always was in clear approval with the indissoluble non-cooperation on their part. Of course she knew the road: he was the hunter, she was the prey and her part was to show a charming bit of temerity before she would finally surrender and let him take what she was seemingly not willing to give.

 

She couldn’t really tell when it was doing more damage to her mind – the first time or now. Damaging the damaged was absolutely a thing. Then, she only had a hunch what would follow, now she knew for sure what to expect. The breach was splitting further, and cracking.

Galloway wouldn’t move. His large hands went groping her as he pressed his body against hers, but all she did was flinch. The girl hung her head, hiding her face, and only jerked her arms out of his touch. That exceptional capacity for subtle repellence was coming at the expense of hurt.

Galloway was choking, and there was no hand around her neck. Her minutes were numbered, and the girl felt it her right to celebrate it by slumping into sorrow. She didn’t deserve it.

It was unfair and life was unfair and there probably was no particular reason why she was the one to bear it, but it was hardly a consolation. Not when his hands, nauseating like a warmed-up frog, were everywhere she didn’t want them to be – everywhere. When she felt dirty and soiled. When she was nailed to a mast of a pirate ship, by a pirate, hoping she had eaten to have something inside her to vomit, her stomach turning and twisting and eyes stinging, recognizing how hamstrung she was before the egregious masculine capability, properly tired, at the sea, far away from home where no one was waiting for her and no one ever would, alone, getting upset over a selfish thought that no one, no one would see her in their sleep when she died. That was unfair, and Galloway knew she could afford to indulge in it, finally – pitying herself. A little treat before it all ended.

The pirate suddenly clutched her face – for the lack of due attention, nothing more. Certainly, usurping a woman without getting punched in the face was always a good change, but the drive of the combat hadn’t worn off just yet. The dirty nails dug into the mellow skin of her cheeks and Galloway flared her nostrils, giving him the satisfaction. And he lunged forward to leech into the girl’s lips. The back of her head hit the mast hard as she tried to skew, but his stinky, rancid saliva slobbered over her tightly shut lips. Her eyes squeezed close. _He_ hadn’t kissed her then. _He_ had enough _respect_.

The desolation turned into rancour in a snap, surprising Galloway herself, and she bit into him – as hard as she could, only careful to not get a piece of his bitten off flesh in her mouth.

It was only a whip: the next thing she knew was a second freedom before the back of his palm wiped at the side of her face.

Tears welled in her eyes and the sudden silence in her ears set ringing: she didn’t know if it was the blow, but she was falling. It could’ve been her initiative just as well – she needed to feel the floor. He had a ring. Maybe two, maybe even more. She had never had a slash on her face, and man did it sting, yet it somehow felt more insultingly bitter than physically painful.

The man had it all: the advantage of built, the might, the blunt lust. He was smug about it. But she possessed something that outweighed it.

She wouldn’t let it happen again, simply because it would be stupid. Her father had not lost his life for it to happen again. She hadn’t made it down there so that it would happen again. She hadn’t…

The line of thought fell. Her insides, appressed with turbulence, went mincing. She collapsed onto the deck again, and that time she braved her soul to look at the crew.

None of them were standing anymore. Joji wasn’t even in the picture, and she almost shrieked, and Billy… Billy was on his knees, as far from the bulk as his chains permitted, a pistol under his chin. New flood of blood washed over the dried streams.

_I’ve been dealing with blood for years._

Her lower lip trembled when her chin twitched. _Please, don’t._

His head was tilted up and there was less than a second between him and death. Little did she know she was getting closer and closer to experiencing what he felt around her. The itching desire to bludgeon the folly out of that head and ensconce him somewhere no one would ever dare hurt or bother him. That touch of fret diluted by something so curious… The fear, the worry, the affection of no name, the sense of peace. An outlandish mixture. The sun kissed boy, and she would never learn why he hated peas, where the trinklets were from and would never hear a word of that villainy beautiful language falling from his lips.

At least she had had a chance to figure why he was so big. It appeared, a smaller form simply wouldn’t accommodate that great soul. _Oh_ , _Billy_.

_Don’t you dare die over it, William Manderly. Please, don’t. I have all the faith in you, I… You don’t deserve to lose your life over it._

He called her a mule, but _look at yourself, Billy,_ wasn’t he one as well. It was barely worth it, and there was barely an opportunity. It would be stupid.

Galloway had to hurry. _Billy, please._

 

Billy Bones had tried to fall the pirate who was watching him by kicking him in the crotch with his elbow, he had almost ripped out his clavicle and had made sure three of the fucker’s toes were to be amputated (if he ever came out of it with his life): he had tried every sleight in his arsenal, but no dice. The sound, the pain, the thud in his ears, the iron of blood on his lips – he felt and heard nothing, for she hypnotised him with those eyes so big suddenly, and he read it on her lips. _Please, don’t._

Another daft set of indiscriminate movements: he never listened to her. Of course he would dare. He tried to rise to his feet - another barrel pressed him down. And Galloway knew she had to rush. To prove it she was more than they’d bargained for. And prove that she would reign the status quo. Life had taught her so much: if you resist, you’re slain, if you don’t fight back, you’re raped. No will make them angry, and there’s only a split of faith it will make you free. The reciprocity rule is never followed and people are pricks. Yet good people aren’t extinct, somehow... it had taught her so much, but hadn’t taught her that it –life – was not bullshit. Right, she could easily slam it since she was to set on parting ways with it anyway. Freedom, wasn’t it?

 

Bones felt the eyes of some of his mates on him. They all a worthless bunch, and he was the bloody mother goose. The skin on her forearms and elbows was red and grazed almost raw. The pirate tugged her by her ankles, tucking her body under himself, dragging her across the wooden planks. 

Billy didn’t believe in God, but he renounced him again.

The time slowed down. The man was upon her, his hands at his crotch, fiddling with the belts. She presented resistance one more time, it skidded to a halt, and he grabbed her jaw, stilling the girl. Her shirt, Billy’s white one, her favourite, Billy’s favourite, saw its demise as his claw ripped it open. The carefully sewn buttons scattered round the floor with resonant clop.

The snub of her nose red, lips parted and her eyes vacant. Her bared chest rising and falling.

The renounced God must’ve helped him, and Bones managed to knock the gun from his guard, tripped him up and almost got hold of the weapon when another pirate shot right next to his arm. Pincers  grabbed onto his shoulders.  

She didn’t even try to cover herself when he put his fingers on her skin. She looked at the sky. Frowning.

_Don’t you fucking dare think of bloody England, don’t you fucking dare, don’t you fucking dare..._

The man stopped fussing down his pants, his face was right above hers. And she jerked.

That kind of consternation Bones only felt normally... no, never.

The pirate’s eyebrows mounted up his forehead. He pulled his cheeks in and made a saucy, delighted O of his mouth. The eyes went rolling.

 

Galloway screwed up her face.

Billy’s heart stopped beating.

 

But the pirate didn’t move.

And then she let out a whine. The first sound they heard from her in all that time.

Shaking, Galloway drew the dagger out of the man’s side and thrust the blade into his neck. It went through, and crew saw the tip of it for a mere breath: she pulled it back out.

Blood sluiced onto her chest, springing out of the wound like a fountain.

He choked upon her face, and it was far more disgusting than the sight of Mr Kelly pleasuring himself.

She breathed in, shaky and unevenly, her trembling limbs struggled to shove him over and off of her.

 

The brothers stirred again. But Vane’s crew got hold of what she had done – the ones who were on the upper deck took to their arms. And Flint’s men got unruly.

Galloway scrambled up on her feet, receding  to the board.

“Don’t fucking move!” Jenks was gaining on her, and she simply shook her head. Tears streamed down her face.

Bones pushed the men around him asunder, but he couldn’t get any closer to her, fencing off the mounting resistance. He was tied to a spot, pinioned, she was far and getting further and someone punched him in the guts – the impact stayed unnoticed.

_Galloway..._

She clambered up onto the board and faltered, trying to stand up straight.

_Don’t fu..._

 “Don’t!” yelled someone from the gun deck. The voice was coming from behind Bones’ back, but he couldn’t recognize it. She didn’t bat an eye.

The girl turned round. And let go of the dagger, throwing it forward with no force.

Bones’ eyes stayed glued to the knife as it fell onto the deck, until it met the wood with a ringing sound.

 “Don’t shoot,” bellowed Jenks. But a familiar pop of discharge shattered the deck.

Galloway didn’t even freeze as it happened sometimes. Her body just plummeted out of sight.

The last thing Bones heard was the jingle of his own chains, the distant splash of the water, and the roar of blind rage exploding out of his own chest.

And then it all went black.

* * *

 

John sat with his elbows on his knees, head hung.

Billy’s foot moved an inch, and he looked up. They’d settled him seated when Vane’s men left them be: it was moderately hard to scrape the mighty bulk of him, knocked out, off the floor.

Bones’ Adam’s apple bobbled in his throat and Silver knew he’d come round.

 

He had.

The sun was shining and irritating his eyes. He could see the sallow light through his lids.

The angering pain in his shoulders and the base his neck was stinging him with the recollection. The saliva was bloody, he tasted the salt and metal of blood on his dry lips. The head splitting. Eyes burning and twitching. The insides of the nostrils sensitive to the air. He just came round, but the convoluted self-flagellating qualm was way past luminal.

 

The battered crew was silent. Doleful and hapless bunch.

 

He just came round and it was the first time in his life that he was far from happy about it. The ambient hadn’t been too friendly for him to come round when he was on the Scarborough, but he was relieved to be alive. Now, the ebb of spirits was a match for the day he had woken up in chains. He lost it again.

 

Her hair was brownish-red against the sun.

Her warm breath on his arm, just above the cut.

He only opened his eyes minutes later.

Decker, shedding blood, was weeping. Reinforcing the dreaded.

_That can’t be._

 

“You all right?”

Billy moved his eyes, the back of his head still pinned to the bulk.

“Yeah,” not to be confused with mild sarcasm, his voice, low and coarse, was lilting. His knuckles got itchy.

“Sure?” Vincent went to ascertain and he had no clue he was on the brink of death.

“Fuck off,” Howell let the rancour spill, on behalf of all the men.

 

Bones couldn’t let his crew grow crestfallen, let alone belligerent in such deep waters, but the blood roaring in his head was poisoned by spleen, the surges of rampancy made him anxious he could lose consciousness again, just at the expense of the innards-shattering anguish that appeared inexorable. The best he could do was clench his teeth – no matter what - and make as little sound as possible. _She always does that. She …did. Nononono. That’s not happening._

“Can she swim?”

“Billy…” DeGroot shut his eyes, frowning with pain.

“Can. She. Swim?”  
“We don’t know,” Dooley’s voice was a shadow. “Peters took her out of the water when we lost the Walrus.”

“I don’t think she wanted to swim…” added someone.

“Stop it,” ordered DeGroot.

No one ventured to open their mouth for half an hour.

Bones did grit his teeth, his jaw tense. The veins on his arms went popping as he clenched his fists.

 _Give credit._ Her murmur filled his ears. _Take blame._ She had said it when one of the crew went yipping at Randall for something he himself was to be held accountable. Oh, he let the chicken out and they flustered the deck, numbing it for good ten minutes.

_Take the blame, Billy._

His head was a mince. A swarm of thoughts, with her inevitably surfacing every millisecond, and he pushed it down his throat, losing pieces of his dry-crushed mind. It went raging out of control when she laughed to him – or maybe it was another moment – and he opened his mouth. Better now, when he still could manage his voice level-headed and not simply whimper in agony.

“You've got about eight votes.”

“What?”

“Eight votes for quartermaster,” he let his head drop onto his shoulder.

“What the hell are you talking about?” with multiple things taking him aback, Silver narrowed his eyes.

“If you hadn't have cut that forestay, there's an argument to be made that Vane would have set sail right away and probably killed us all. They know it and it's having an effect.”

“I'm sorry, but I think you're wrong. They all seem quite content with Mr. Scott.”

“Two kinds of quartermasters on a crew like this. The one you feel you're supposed to vote for, and the one you want to vote for. And the former always gives way to the latter.”

“And you're comfortable with this?” _and most importantly, are you sane?_

“Not remotely,” Billy echoed absently.

_She would have something to say to it._

Bones never experienced a want to talk about Silver, but there it was. _She would have something to say._  

 

Silver was... Silver. He liked her, it felt.

She seemed to find him more than decentish as well, give or take, despite him being ... Silver. And no matter what Bones made of him, personally, losing another brother was nowhere on his agenda.

Thus he was the first to swift up to his feet when a Vane’s crew approached John.

“This one. Get him up.”

“What the fuck is this about? What are you doing with him?” Billy’s head was still swimming.

“Shut up.”

“Hey, that's our brother you got there. Put him down.”

Who decided on the number of time the poor crew was to run the gantlet. _Vane?_

No effect. The second agitation did do the justice to the foreplay and it was a couple of seconds before he tested the yield strength of a shaggy skull. A refreshing punch in the guts was quick to follow.

“Move, you fuckin' die!” a remarkably intimate feeling of a pistol hovering above him.

 They took their departure not without a travail. Not that it mattered much.

Bones hung his head.

 _J_ _esus_.

 _Your bona fide, Galloway. Jesus Christ._  

“Billy,” whispered someone. Bones turned around. The breath grew cadenced.  

 

 _“Revenge is almost always attainable,” she mused, gracefully peeling an egg. “But is the revenge always an adequate comeuppance? Hardly ever,” she shrugged and sucked the tip of her thumb: she’d pricked it with the shell._  

 

Dooley beckoned to the floor.

_It’s nowhere near a comeuppance, Galloway._

The keys rested right where Silver’s leg used to be.

_When am I ever lucky?_

_Never_.  

 

“Quiet,” he said, sitting down. “Do it. Stay seated until I command.”

Dooley nodded. They key clicked softly in his irons, and, leaving the undone chains on, he silently passed the ring on. 

It made its way through the crew, slowly but surely. Billy designed himself to be the last. Partly because he wanted her to snap in front of him, blaming him for being suicidal, but mostly since the shackles were adding a measure of assurance he would curb the building temper in his muscle. He summoned every bit of willpower, but mere acknowledgment of _it_ mustered the infernal forces to suck the guts out of him.

Silver’s animal vociferation only spurred the agitation.

“Asses back down!” he hissed when some of the unchained ventured to rise.

The sole proficiency of his stepped into the breach and he assessed the number of the pirates on the deck, his own crew, the rough amount of effort the undertaking would cost and craft the strategy and tactics: all that barely employing the troubled parts of his noggin.

Galloway would’ve been dangerously proud to see him deliver orders enlisting the aid of his face only – he divided the man at hand into groups and communicated the posts of their planned deployment curving and crooking the brows. But she wasn’t there to appreciate it.

“Ready?” he checked unflinchingly. “Now,” a lightning. “Go, go, go.” 

 

He would only have a muffled recollection of what followed.

The torrents of blood rushing through his ears, the thunder of his heartbeat, the rainwater slamming against and washing off the remains of barely contained composure. Now he was fully aware of his capacity. Now he knew what to do, how to do it. He knew how to make it fast, he knew how to make it last. And he wasn’t afraid of himself.

Against heavy odds – yet unarmed at the time – he nullified two pirates on the gun deck, screwing their heads off. He would thank pulsion in his chest that served the impetus and guided him blind later. Once finally in possession of his weapon, he wasn’t timid to employ it.

Billy didn’t really tell one hairy bastard for another, why sweat the small stuff, say nothing of keeping count of how many he wasted. His dagger sat fast in his steady hand as he was driving it in and out various parts of carcasses an excessive amount of times.

They tried to keep it down.

Joji was slicing people by his side with cunning levity. And, booting a head lying on his way, for a good measure, Bones heard him grunt.

It threw him of balance for a breath. He recognized the unrecognized voice.  

 

Bones fought ad naseum. Eventually introducing an amendment to the flagship approach: maiming rather than murdering. He would leave them suffering for the rest of their lives and they’d be wiser for it. He deemed it would be a step closer to offset what they had done. The lives they’d taken. Randall, Joshua, Allen, Chausson, Brown, Peters, little Murdy… the innocent maverick Scottish lady, who had grown up in London, and who had easily invited herself deep inside him…

 _And whom I bloody welcomed,_ he roared inwardly, axing his cutlass onto an umpteen future corpse.

 

The number of prey on deck waned in a few minutes, if not sooner (much to his discontent), and, carefully plotted by Billy, the assault of the captain quarters was well underway.

 

None the better. He knew the lech-for-blood induced blaze would not bring alleviation, neither did slashing Jenks. The force he exerted, the smoothness of the blade slotting flesh like butter, the tensive pain in his arms, the stench of sweat and subsiding pall of gunpowder. It never was a delight, but sometimes, only sometimes, it was alleviating. Being out of breath and pleasantly bone-tired, glad it was over. Not the case.

The venomous loathing was only an illusion of command.

His shoulders fell slightly as he stopped to sum up the situation. They did it. But...

Jensen – _my wig!_ – emerged from nowhere with a cutlass raised in his hand, markedly in contemplation of fixing Billy’s blunder. But Bones’ cutlass clinked against the rigger’s weapon, stopping it an inch away from Jenks’ blood flooded chest.

Death throes of fairly long continuance wouldn’t go amiss, reckoned Billy. Shifting the blame was under no circumstances a remedy Bones resorted to, but had he been alone in faulting Jenks for failing to stem the abuse when he was just about the only person who could afford it, then Jensen wouldn’t have been there, holding a steel for the first time in his life.

* * *

 

“If those ships flank us, they'll have us.”

“Then let's make sure they don't get that chance. Gun crews at the ready,” the severe shock was setting in. “Fire at will.”

The denial was resurfacing. He’d suffered enough and more to know the ropes of grief and act wisely and accordingly. Hide it and deal with it. He always chose to let it fuse. The denial would last and he would dream of being in another universe, so would the anger – but he was no better even running amok - and the decay. He always eschewed the bargaining, though, he knew it was futile. Let it fuse, and hurt, and stay there with him till the dying day. It wasn’t something one could get used to, even if it happened every day.

Bones was slowly making his way across the deck.

He realised the crew didn’t blame him for the omission of requisite and perfectly appropriate binge upon learning about Gates’ death, most likely only because he evidently had no time for it. Little did they know he didn’t need it. Surely he could use a cuppa. With a scone. But...

Of course he knew. He didn’t have to do a case study to assess to what extent he cared, the anecdotal evidence of the recurring  alien, now formerly, feelings in his chest spoke to the fact. But there the destiny slapped him in the face with an opportunity to avow.

It was an incandescent kettle, and he had to place his open palm on it.

Welcome the osmosis.

And whimper in agony.

He crouched down to pick up the dagger.  


	17. XVIII. p.2.

DeGroot had once got quite conflicted over Bones’ mental performance, the impetus of the fret being the damned French book, but now his adrift and ambivalent gaze was beyond vindicable. The ship had officially entered the sombre.The unavoidable sequence of any battle, it was arriving too early yet. Engulfed in the vociferous hullabaloo of canon volleys and bustle of the gun crews, the men were frothing already, frothing with bate and disinclination to condone. As if chaining the pack of crumbs would be offsetting. It was hard not to notice her absence albeit she had rarely sought to make her presence manifest.

Those who wished and those who did not, those who’d never spoken to her and those at ease with unbosoming themselves to her, the ones openly disliked and the ones overtly welcomed, they felt it. The ship lacked her.

She wasn’t there and it was evident, the reality of it stunning and terrifying, almost like the news about _Grande y Felicíma Armada_ ’s shellacking that had hit the Spanish a century ago.

But unlike _the Invincible_ , they had all believed Galloway would be dead, sooner or later: she was a girl, and she was on no pleasure craft, which was a guarantee that violence would seek her out. But the time would progress, and she would keep defying the odds and proving them wrong – occasionally in the ways that hurt – and would walk over the shibboleths and shut the door on death time after time. And inchmeal even those of the crew who were not disposed to act genial, found themselves masochistically reconciling with the fact she was there to stay. 

And now the girl who lived was dead. And bewildering was the way she’d left them.

The trembling frame of the gunwale, forced into an unequal battle, confronted by an unmanageable choice, escaping shame and filth, remained imprinted in their minds. The mess of the dark hair, the chest covered in blood, the torn shit and the soft stomach, heaving, the glimpse of the breast. The scratch on her cheekbone, washed over by the uninhibited flow of salty tears falling from the lifeless eyes.

Of course, none of them did, but it was unanimously voted she was by far the last one to deserve it.

 

They kissed goodbye to the dramatically undramatic companion of Randall’s, alleged daughter of Mr Gates, a woman with a wit bridging scuppering moxie and thigh-slapping funniness, the best cook the crew had seen and the prettiest petulant petal that ever walked the deck. They didn’t even get to know the abstemious iconoclast well enough.  

And they were back to only one Betsy.

 

Regardless, DeGroot soon bailed from his pundit task, in piety to Bones who must’ve lost something more ensouling than just that, for he looked utterly unaffected.

 

Billy had issued an order to check the ropes – the first thing to do when something felt off. Some of the crew had ran along the boards, surveying the waters, but he hadn’t joined them. There was nothing for him to see, for them to see. No trace of her. There was no faith for him in the practice of positive thought and a touch of denial. The deadpan expression wasn’t too hard to manage. But only if he had to keep his eyes to the sightlines.

The town plunged in atrocity and the patrol ships getting demolished alloyed into the conflux of attention and action, and the water, uninvolved, seemed to have been taken out of a painting and glued into the reality. The surface untroubled – apart from a narrow radius around patrol vessels that kept harassing entirely blameless ripples by constantly shedding laths – the depths quiescent and estranged from the purgatory above. Welcoming. Quiet. Rest.

 

 _Rest_. 

He glanced around aimlessly.

It couldn’t have been a coincidence – whenever his eyes roamed the deck, Joji was an imminent part of the canvas. For the first time in this millennium the man had an emotion on his face. Emotion of hope he’d have a bloody drink some time soon.

It wasn’t a coincidence, really.

Joji possessed more self-control and quench than all Nassau rolled into one. That, and many other traits, were ascribed to him, not for nothing, considered loaches of his origins. The adamantine loyalty was one of the most valued ones, alongside with the calm and formidable sensation that he could evoke in arbitrary people at arbitrary times. Once he had arrived in Nassau a decade before, leaving everyone wondering how, he adjoined himself to Captain Flint, leaving everyone wondering why, and never moved from the secured position. The rest of the loyalty, that wasn’t yet spent on the crew, steered fully to the girl – a person he found agreeable, turned into a somewhat of a protégé, and adored like a pet.

And the amount of self-control nurtured was jeopardizing, when the convulsion swelling inside trampled itself, unable to break the thick shell of the acquired toughness. Galloway had left a lot behind – maybe not by conventional standards, but she would’ve been surprised to learn the tally of shit she’d ended up obtaining – the half empty chest, another sack of sugar she’d snuck aboard, the dagger. Joji just gravitated towards it. The knife he’d sharpened. And Billy, who bore it. She’d left him behind, too.

 

What Bones saw in Joji was exactly the same what DeGroot saw in Bones.

And he went questioning whether the warrior was blaming himself. Too.

They would never live it down.

Bleeding for her wasn’t nearly enough. They should’ve died in the attempt to save her life. He definitely should’ve. He never undervalued his life – perfectly aware that on the grand scheme of things none of their lives had value – but _holly hell_ where did they go from there?

 

It drained him, and when he though it couldn’t possibly get worse, it resorted to a second wind. There wasn’t much he could do, and he was simply doing his job, hoping not to get outbalanced by the endless inner catechism that was impossible to cork, the odd weight of her dagger sitting in his belt (he couldn’t even bear the thought he would have to yield it to the water), the minutiae of their conversations...

 

No, his unvoiced hopes that one day life would stop pelting him with shit were vain, and God would never have mercy upon him.

_Well, why should he?_

He even only let him hope for a spell.

 

One thing tossed him afoul, and it was a frantic terror and a vivid hope that maybe one day he’d exert enough insanity to conjure her up and...

 

“Boat approaching!”

 _You’ll deal with it, son,_ Gates’ hoarse voice muted the sound of life, _She’s managed, so will you. She’s even managed to laugh, remember?_

_Of course I remember, but you ain’t doing a great job, Hal, you know it?_

_You only spur it._

Bones felt for the grip of his pistol.

With a steady assurance that a spur was the only thing he deserved, he drew the weapon out, weighing it in his hand. He needed the sorrow, so that he could drown in the guilt and deploring since he’d failed to go hence with her.

 

Bones’ hand flew up.  Vane was first to embark the Man o’ war.

And first thing Vane saw was Billy’s pistol pointed at him. And he disregarded it completely, leaning back over  the board.

“Help your captain,” he grunted, awkwardly assuming James’ charge – the reason James was struggling holding onto the ropes. A dark spill of hair and bloodied white shirt.

Charles took the body, dragging it over the board. He caught her legs aptly, despite his chains, and straightened up, displaying the haul. Dooley pulled Flint up, wet as a drowned rat.

“A bit of turmoil since you left,” uttered Billy, close on losing the veneer, when his captain landed on the deck, the level of anger rendered on his face unmanly. “But it's under control now,” the gun didn’t waiver in his hand, but the vision went swimming and, scanning the lifeless body he suspected the evidence of his own eyes.

“Release those men,” Said Flint, watching Vane’s crew. Bones wasn’t fit to protest, but he opened his mouth as if he was about to notwithstanding...  “I'll not hold pirates prisoner on this ship, not after today.”

Making use of Billy’s triple confusion, Vane proffered his arms forward to him.

“Keep your men in line,” spat James, looking at Charles. “Take her, will you?” he said to Billy, whose arm fell sharp, lowering the pistol. “Take her to Howell.”

“Howell is occupied,” Bones heard Dooley speak.

Billy took a swift step forward, letting Vane almost gingerly hand the girl’s body to him. Cold.

“Then deal with it...Take us back towards the sandbar. Southwest corner of the bay. We'll start from there.”

There was no frown on her forehead.

“Ready the guns! Full complement.”

“What's the target, Captain?” asked Scott.

“Whatever's left.”

Bones didn’t know if there was a continuance to that conversation, he didn’t follow it any further.

She was barefoot.

He rushed into the captain’s quarters.

 

She was heavier than he remembered, might be due to the dripping wet clothes. Pliant, ice-cold, disturbingly peaceful, she was burning his skin.

Her head hung loosely off his arm, and he moved his elbow to steady it. The torn shirt revealing more than she would be comfortable unveiling.

He opened the door with his shoulder. Joji hustled in, getting ahead of Bones to spread a blanket he’d snatched from Abigail’s hammock on the windowsill for Billy to lay the girl down. And then he hustled out.

She was barefoot.

She’d not been when she fell. She’d taken the boots off.

The shot couldn’t have been fatal.

Billy took her head in his hands and ducked down. A murmur of feeble breath. Alive.

He finally remembered what happiness was, when the inexorable wave of it knocked him down. The happiness of every kind in the world, getting him so weak he couldn’t even smile.

The loose strands of her locks were sticking to her wet forehead, and he stroked the baby-fine hairs up with his thumb, registering the shakiness in his hand.

_When was he ever lucky?_

The muscles in his stomach rippled and, as if held in a fist, he pulled back.

Fatal or not, it was still a shot.

 _Rum_.

He was hot with alarm as he rummaged through Flint’s shelves and drawers.

Joji burst in again, carrying a pile of clothes and jingling keys to the shackles.

The bottom of the bottle Bones had fetched landed on the sill right above her head, and once her hands were free of the irons, he drew the dagger out. She didn’t even flinch when the chains crashed onto the floor with a loud clank.

Bones cut the torn fabric of the shirt, rosy with the washed out blood.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed out, tossing it away. He shouldn’t be seeing it. He was not supposed to be seeing it. The skin that looked so smooth, yet too pale. The soft stomach, and the crease he’d noticed when he carried her was not there anymore. Her round breasts and nipples hard with cold. The dips under the collarbones, the moles... Any other day, different circumstances, he would’ve appreciated it the way it deserved, but all he could think about then was a long, semi-wide dashed wound on the inner arm and rent skin on her side.

While Joji was trying to calculate the trajectory of the bullet that must’ve caught her right in the moment when her arm was outstretched throwing the dagger away, Bones torn a piece off a shirt and saturated it with a generous amount of rum.

“Wash it, I’ll get gauze to…” he took a step back, handing the fabric to Joji, but the man gave him a pat on the shoulder and went off.

Bones neither challenged nor searched for a reason behind Joji’s decree. His heart was galloping.

He didn’t have a name for that feeling.  For the affluence of it.

She lay in front of him, vulnerable as never before, her frame beginning to quiver, weak, small waves running through her meek creature. Mauled. Defenceless. Dear. Breathing suddenly seemed a labour.

He knew what was asked of him, and he knew the only thing she truly needed: his resolution, his level-headedness, his mind. He would deal with his inner turmoil later. Galloway’s stomach tensed in another shiver.

Any wound could turn gangrenous, but his could wait.

 

Unusually white and cool, her skin was tender and soft to the touch, caressed by the water.

The wound wasn’t deep and wasn’t bleeding anymore. The sodding bullet had sheared the skin off, somewhat missing the target and leaving her relatively unscathed. No matter how hard she was trying to die, she still managed to stay alive.

There was a merit to her unconsciousness, Billy knew only too well the stinging pain that came with alcohol meeting flesh. I would’ve knocked her out either way, given the toll being in the water had taken on her. Delicately, even more delicately than he had used to hold his mother’s dearest china, he cleaned the wound of salt and gunpowder that hadn’t been washed away by the water. His meticulousness surfaced in the form of the hard brow and clinched teeth.

And then, putting the cloth away, still holding her hand, he finally let himself breathe out.

“Think we’ll do without stitches here,” Bones uttered colourlessly when Joji returned and came up to Galloway to examine Billy’s work. _Thank god. She doesn’t deserve any more suffering with the needles._ “Silver?”

Joji just nodded.

“Right,” he took the gauze. “Thanks,” he forced out and gritted his teeth again.

Billy carefully wrapped her wounded arm, to the accompaniment of Joji’s suppressed grunts as he was clearing the cabin of the bodies plastered across the floor. She needed not to see it when she came round.

He was careful not to coil the gauze too tight: her arm was slowly turning coral and swollen as the blood was rising to the skin. A snap image of Galloway, sent hurtling to the floor, hopped in front of his eyes. She’d landed on that side, and the bruise would leave her tender for a few weeks, best case.

 

Bones was nothing if not mindful, and he deliberately covered her bosom, wrapping a strip of gauze around her torso to secure the pad on the side wound, to save her another unease. And Joji decided to support that edifice and quietly leave, when Billy pulled the blanket from under the girl to cover her legs. He had to take the wet and cold off of her, but couldn’t bring himself to strip her of intimacy to an even bigger extent. Seeing her in the state of undress not being granted the consent wasn’t something he would take the liberty to.

 Joji left because he trusted Billy, and knew that she did. And she’d appreciate it to learn she’d been handed to one of the few people on board who wouldn’t even consider doing anything outside the scope of the strictly necessary. Because that was something to be thankful for – not to be abused.  

 

Denuding Galloway blindly didn’t go as easy as he supposed it would. He attempted to pull on the trousers to tug them down as he knew they had been untied, but the width of her hips denied him. And Bones had to venture under the blanket and grasp the waistband of the breeches to pull them down and off. Her skin painfully cool, and he felt the tiny thin hairs on her thighs covered in goose bumps.

The pants joined the shirt on the floor, making one soggy heap. _A little more. It’ll be alright._

He pushed the upheaval on the back burner and the frontiers of his conscience went blissfully empty.

Bones sat down at her feet and slipped the dry breeches on her legs. He made gathers at the ankles at first – and the only thought travelling his vacant head was that she had interestingly bony ankles... -  and pinned her ice-cold feet against his stomach to slide the trousers up her legs, but the blanket followed, and he shut his eyes, swearing to himself. Her bottom was another hiccup. Bottoms had always been hiccups – Billy, unsurprisingly, had been through that routine, maybe not even once, when he and his brothers – either pirates or yet impressed ones, - had to take care of their mates. There had never been a blanket, though. And he’d dealt with other kind of... bottoms. Galloway was heavyish, round. She was a woman. And boy did she do a great job hiding the curves, the dips of her hips, the waist, the bosom – fuller than he could envisage – from the view by dint of the breeches and shirts. Predominantly his shirts. And yet somehow her ankles and wrists were bony. Women.

 

Nothing on the ship would let him forget that his favoured mule was female. A woman, out of place there and constantly reminded of which by being diminished and abused, always finding herself at the end of a taunt, and a punch. A woman, and nothing was to hide it: neither the shirts nor the forced hardening. She would always try to make them see past her gender, and she would always know she would never be an equal. She was weaker.

Bones shook the dry shirt up. _Weaker_. He put her arm into the sleeve.  And then the other one.

Galloway was melted, not a single muscle tensed, only shivers running slowly up and down her limp body.

Those arms were weaker.

She was shorter.

The fingers were daintier. The ankles bonier.

Oh, enough to say Bones’ arm was thicker than any limb of hers but the thigh. Her body was smaller, and weaker.

But she wasn’t.

Gender had nothing to do with mind, and half of the crew would be obliged to even be put in comparison with her. Or with some of the wenches in the brothel.

Button by button, Billy was bringing Galloway her privacy back.

It was a new level of peace that he’d discovered, that came with a feeling of a new legitimate need. Surely it would’ve been stupid to assume anything else but her would be able to alleviate the pain that she caused, but the thought shot through his mind – something he would never picture himself thinking, let alone thinking over – but he treated himself (the amount of blunt happiness warmed him into oblivion) to settling that she herself was just generally alleviating.

 

That stupid advantage they, man, had. Built. And strength. Was it enough to deem oneself superior?

He took the strings of her pants and swiftly tied them up. Too big, still.

His fingers accidentally brushed against her stomach. Soft and cold, the beating of her heart echoing under his fugitive touch.  His dirty hand, covered in blood, gunpowder, grime and sweat against her skin, colour of parchment.

How superior it was to deem that that strength could be the decisive factor? In a circumstance of battle that could be, but she wasn’t there to fight. She only had the arms to protect herself.

And she would stand in one line with the best of them if it came to the mind. If not a step forward.

 

“What happened?”

Billy didn’t look up. He merely walked round the cabin with a grim expression, gathering all the blankets he could see, and answered dryly, “Ask the ones you released.”

Flint didn’t say a word more. Flooding the floor as he went, he came up to the windowsill.

It had almost cost her her life: proving.

One after another, Bones tucked her into the blankets, her whole self trembling in one steady, subtle rhythm – good, her body wasn’t giving up, - and her lips were finally gaining a warmer tinge, not livid anymore.

 

He barely cared: Billy sat down on the floor, right under the windowsill, and closed his eyes.

He threw his head back, breathing out. She was back, the peace – the ace of it that he still had – was back, and the steady soothing confidence that she was there was intoxicating.

Flint just stood next to her, watching the cocoon of her barely heaving.

“You saved her,” Billy’s voice was low and tight. There, acknowledging and being grateful fused into one.

“Wouldn’t be able to if she didn’t want it,” was the captain’s line. 

_I don’t think she wanted to swim…_

Billy heard him shake the jacket off and toss it onto the chair.

Bones didn’t know what the captain was trying to do just standing next to her. Was he casting a healing spell, was he apologizing, or waiting for a gratitude, or was he praying? Billy was.

And only hours later, well into the night, laying in his hammock, Billy would recognize Flint had never mentioned anything about Bones’ duty that he, in fact, was not exactly performing that moment.

 

Minutes later, the captain’s slow, but determined step headed to the door. It opened with little sound, and Bones felt a tide of air spill across the floor.

“Billy…”

The rasp and small voice forced him to scramble to his feet like an explosion and he almost got dizzy. Flint halted in the door.

Billy’s lips parted as he erected himself into tall posture.

Galloway didn’t open her eyes, but the frown had already established itself. He hovered above her like a dumb tree, slack mouthed and...

Her neck moved as she tried to swallow, the tongue was sticking to the dryness of her mouth, and only after a few moments of struggle she croaked out exhaustedly, “Where’s Mrs Barlow?”

The door closed behind Flint.

* * *

 

How odd death is.

One may sue for it, but is only eager to greet it at their will.

 

She fell back first, the rigid and inhospitable strain of water delivered a mighty slap to the whole of her. It stung. And burned, and her eyes went black for a second, and the tears leaking from her eyes didn’t really bring the salinity up. A heavy blanket covered her.

The agony was short-lived. She went sinking, fast, and her own legs in front of her, moving free, hypnotized her.

The water deep blue, the rays of sun piercing the mass, the hull slowly blurring. And Galloway closed her eyes, succumbing to the deafening pressure of the water around her. She was weightless, and free, and unsuspiciously easy.

 

_“Don’t be afraid,” he holds her by the middle. Her limbs restless as she is fighting the flowing waters. “Come on, keep calm,” he chuckles, buoying her up. “Ready?” Lizzie nods, holding her breath. “Three, two…”_

_But she doesn’t hear the “one” as he has already pushed her under the water. She swings her arms and dangles her legs. But he quickly lets go and she pops up, laughing._

_“Not as bad as it looks, right?”_

_Lizzie cracks up, the water runs down her chin. She dives once more, moving her arms bottom-up to_ _delay floating to the surface._

_When she bobs up again, she sees his smiling face._

 

Her heart was thumping.

A glance up.

The hull now seemed far away. Too far away.

She let her eyes fall closed again. The chains were weighing her down even more.

 

_“Enough, Elizabeth, enough,” he laughs as she emerges again. “Mother is waiting. Come, let’s come out,” he takes her under one arm and leads her to the shore. “We’ll practice tomorrow.”_

 

She moved her elbow subconsciously, hoping to feel his touch, but it was horrendous pain that she came instead. No sooner had she woke to the wound, the wound woke to her.

It only intensified when Galloway moved, as panic took control of the situation, and she pushed her feet off invisible something and mustered her body in the direction of the surface.

The water pressed against her chest and her lips trembled in hysteria as she tried not to cry out in pain, fearing to fill her lungs with water.

 _You won’t make it_.

The wounded arm was hard to move, the shackles still added more complexity to the scheme, and soon the muscles in the legs began to burn and shrink.

_Stupid instincts._

_You only make me suffer._

 

Like a wrong-way mermaid, hands-tied, she wormed her way up.

_You won’t make it._

_“You have other things to see to, surviving here in a cook’s capacity.”_  
_“Surviving, yes. Half of the time I barely know what I’m doing.”_  
 _“But you’re doing well.”_

_“Yes, failing, but successfully.”_

_“You are impressive.”_

_“...I’m glad you’re alive.”_

_“I’m glad you’re alive too.”_

She managed to break surface right before her lungs got flat.

Ears still submerged, Galloway didn’t open her eyes at first, focusing on the reckless breathing that pushed water out of her mouth to drip down her chin.

And then she dived again, to take care of the pain, and let out a long shriek that drowned in the numbness of the water.

 

Resurfacing again, the girl opened her eyes, and the world was divided – the azure and the umber. The water brought her home.

A few waggles of her legs, and she grasped the sharpness of the hull. Covered in barnacles, weeds, ooze and other filth she wished not to know the name of.

Her nails scraped against the wood and fouling, and soft, wet splinters mawkishly rasped her palms.

The ship was quiet, save for the creaks coming from the foremast. It would still take them some more time to complete the forestay fixing.

And she scrambled her way to the rudder.

 

Hunger.

That was what kept her alive.

The agonising pain, the water jamming her chest from the outside, the itching soreness in her hands, the sudden heaviness of her legs, the water burning all nasal cavities and making her feel like a child undergoing a badly executed baptism,  and it was the gnawing, vacuuming feeling in her guts that was buoying her up. Dying on an empty stomach was the silliest idea, for the black hole devouring her innards was quite diverting from, well, the important.

She would die for a loaf, but would there be a loaf after death?

 

Oh, if only they’d made sure and put a nail right there, on the hull, for her to throw the chain over and just hang.

Time did not fly.

Her grip on the ship was alternating between practical and nominal, depending on what did tire – the fingers of the legs. The hardest thing yet not letting her eyes slam shut.

 _One point_ , she pressed down on the heels of her shoes with her toes to remove them: the shoes were only adding the weight and wouldn’t be a great loss, and given the pains it took to actually force them down her feet,  she didn’t even mind the feet coming off just as well.

The only thing that virtually seemed to bother her, and sent her lower lip trembling harder, was her looking down on her bare chest and discovering it was _bare_. The bastard had torn not only the shirt, he’d destroyed the self-made brassiere-strap, and _man_ did it sting.

 

She cried. And cried, and cried, gulping down her tears and sobbing like a toddler, letting all the conceivable fluids dribble down her cheeks and chin. Trapped in the hell of her own making.

Shock was a great thing – it kept her floating and secured her brain from seriously pondering why she was currently choosing that torture – the torture with an end unpredictable – over reuniting with her father. Granted only three options – sinking, swinging or swimming, she chose the latter, not realizing just yet that the choice would sooner or later be narrowed to exclude the preferred alternative.

It kept the exhaustion at bay.

It kept her amental.

But it would wear off, sooner or later.

 

Galloway came to her senses when one of her legs cramped, and screwing her face in a throe, she heard a holler. And soon after, a splash. And a string of thunderous shots.

 

The hearing was restoring, the body registered the cold, and her limbs were flushing with life and new era of pain.

Another burst, the cries still rang.

She moved her stiff fingers.

Footsteps echoed above her head.

The ship spewed it’s round of fire.

 

Only a few minutes, and they were moving, taking it to the open. 

 

 _At least I tried._  

 

Galloway closed her eyes.

She’d though of an orderly way to farewell life many times. Nothing would make it go amiss.

She looked up at the sky, a slow smile went spilling across her face...

 _Jensen_.

 

He came up to the board for a mere second, and she caught sight of his dishevelled hair.

Her heart set drumming.

The ship was theirs.

Theirs.

When were they ever that lucky?

 

She clawed back to the wood and exercised all the might she could muster to administer an outcry, but only managed a wheeze.

The thudding of the guns enveloped her, almost bereaving her of senses.

She tore her throat again, but it came out no louder than a pup’s whine.

Now she didn’t even have the time nor the strength to perform the farewell, and the water already started to suffocate her.

 

The noise was getting louder.  The straws she was grasping at were snapping.

She choked.

Her hand slipped, and the sea sucked her down under the surface.

The barnacles crashing under her hands as she clawed at the fouling.

 

Last time, she wouldn’t make it any more, Galloway wrestled to the surface, spluttering and spitting tears out. Her breath hitched and the ragged gasps deadened the explosions around.

Her wrists gave out under the irons, and she turned away from the ship.

And she saw a boat.

 

A series of indescribable movements, and she sank again only to pop up one for a final time and see two men in the boat. And one of them stood up.

And then an umpteenth discharge stunned her.

* * *

 

The weight of the withheld hammered him down to the floor. It was a thin margin between effusion and emptiness, and Billy reeled.

Her little croak went through his body like a bolt, forcing one shuddering surge of throb, “Billy...”

It was far from over. There was nothing to her voice but suffering.

“Where’s Mrs Barlow?”

He didn’t know.

He didn’t know where she was. But the realisation that she wasn’t in that world, but the next, came with the door closing behind the captain.

Whatever she was – the spring of his doubt and the merit of his near-death experience – Billy was concerned to comprehend the sort of anguish tormenting the captain. Time and tide wait for no man. Life gives no quarter.

He didn’t answer, and her eyes inched open tardily, the black irises in the sea of red, ruptured vessels.

Galloway unsealed her dry lips again, and Bones just shook his head.

“Where...” the girl took a breath in, inhaling a hysteria, “... is she?”

She hadn’t felt that way in a long time. There was not a single inch of her that wasn’t hurting. The head was reeling and the blurry light of cheerful sun was burning her eyes out. Even a mere thought of administering a limb sent the said limb shaking in frailty. She didn’t have the voice to scream. The eyes rolled back closed and overbearing the pain, Galloway tried to push the blankets off her.

“No, no, no,” Bones ducked closer to cover her back, but she went writhing in pain when the wounds checked in. Fainting could be considered rest, but that was all she had managed to recover the strength for.

Galloway died down. The physical stillness of hers that she’d been trying to save so desperately was betraying her.  She’d only managed to roll a bit, and facing the glaring blueness of the window,  she let desolation jam her throat and pry the tears out.

The cold refused to leave and only fortified it’s reign over her with each shiver, and Galloway didn’t know what was scarier: the embarrassment  of the tidal jerks that were so far beyond the control that it was getting painful, or the nauseating feeling when the world went black again.

“Galloway?” a pool of warmth descended on her as Bones put the blankets back over, and Galloway caught feeble hold of some of the warmth – something to keep her conscious.

It only got sharper – a twinge enough to fall a regiment, it felt, and her limp body bent, lifted. An unfamiliar embrace, but the familiar grip.

Bones destined everything to go fuck itself, and scooped the girl up.

He sat on the sill, cornering himself, and clutched her tighter when she shivered.

 

Billy was warm. Warmer than the blankets. The scent of him she would hardly dab appealing anywhen, no one probably would, but the pungent smell of sweat, gunpowder and metal that wafted form him was weirdly luscious and yearned for.

And his hand, rough and dry, gently held her head up, and Galloway opened her eyes. 

“Miss Ashe?” she whispered. Her lips trembled as she tried to breathe in.  The mouth was dryer than DeGroot’s humour, the girl barely could swallow.

“She must be all right,” he took a wildest guess, but he couldn’t risk another swing.

As half-dead as she was, the eyebrow curved with athletic proficiency.

“How do you know?”

Billy pursed his lips. _Half-dead, yeah. If the mule argues, the mule is very much alive._

Alive. How long it took to sink in, but once there...

Galloway just stared into his eyes that forced her into healing: she took all she could since he wasn’t overly informative.

“Decker,” a last shot.

“He _is_ fine.”

The girl nodded, closing her eyes.

Tears had dried as fast as they emerged and she scrutinized the sparkly darkness of her lids, welcoming pain into intimacy. She got acutely aware of the heaviness of her body. And every single inch of her that was touching him, the solidity of the tangency. Blissfully exotic.

That offer of closeness set the new record for the bravest things Bones had done. He wouldn’t be surprised if she, from then on, chose to approach men with a wooden cross in her outstretched hand and never let a brat come closer than an arm’s distance. He wouldn’t dispraise it. But her angled head pressed against his arm, extending reassurance she wasn’t to rebuke his action for frivolity.

He held her carefully, afraid to double the pain, and her stillness, the weight of her carelessly resting in his arms, the absolute lack of apprehension in her eyes were the biggest compliment anyone had ever paid him.

Her brow twitched and she frowned deeper, opening her mouth.

“What is it?” he responded instantly.

The tears left two shiny thin lines framing her cheeks. Galloway took a semi-deep breath, almost hiccupping, and opened her eyes into a squint. She lay in his arms impotently, and God knew how long she’d been even more incognizant. She appreciated the clothes she was clad in were dry and almost warm, but was too tired to ponder how it had been accomplished, and get embarrassed.

 His big arm was around her shoulder.

He’d tasted her concoction. He’d witnessed her bleed, in various ways. He’d heard her swear. He’d seen her cry. They were past acting coy. Quite relieving.

Billy swallowed, growing worried, and the girl breathed out shortly before ungluing her tongue from the dry palate:

“I haven’t … lost control of my…” she halted, “… bowels?”

Apparently, that question followed Decker in the rating of concerns.

“No,” he hastened to answer. “No, no.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds before Billy hung his head. He couldn’t hold it anymore. A timid smile broke on his face.

“I’ve seen it happen,” she stated, examining the dimple on his cheek. It blossomed out of her control: a vague resemblance of a smile.

“It does… happen,” he nodded, looking up.

 

Galloway felt as if trampled by a pack of bulls. And maybe touched in the head for there were multiple things she couldn’t decipher, but...

She had killed another one.

Another man.

Why didn’t she feel anything?

Her nostrils flared and lips trembled,  and Bones saw her eyes water as she tipped her head back, and hastened to bring the neck of a rum bottle to her mouth, before she could fall in the thicket of derangement.

Her frozen fingers braced the bottle, partly covering his digits supporting the container. She took a hearty gulp, and her face contorted with surprise when she realised what it was, but didn’t let go. She lapped up, devouring the liquid as if it was water, and a few tears slipped from her tightly shut eyes.  
“Easy, easy,” he gently bereaved her of the bottle, noting it couldn’t have been her first encounter with strong spirits.

The girl drew a long breath in, sniffing.

“Better?”

“No,” she confessed, putting her head back onto the support of his arm.

His jaw jumped.

 

Her eyes, deep and dark, warmed his face. He was like music – a tune she’d heard people whisper and mumble on the streets, but now it was a hall, and a full-scale classical orchestra was performing the lush and rich symphony. She’d studied his face so many times, but it was so sharp now, so close. Coarse bristle covering his hollowing cheeks, every single pore, every single hair, the grime on his skin, the eyebrows and lashes, barely visible, fairer than even his skin. The sun-kissed boy. His lips so even and smooth, enviably fuller than hers. And the eyes… no, there was nothing different this time: no matter how close or far he was, they were bluer than lagoon water and clearer than spring air, and the glint… Staring was indictable, but she kept submerging, and not even a part of her brain stirred to elaborate a justification.

“You still have blood on your face.”

Billy's eyes roamed her face and he swallowed with difficulty.

“Does it hurt?” she cheeped, and he felt the shakiness of her icy fingers on his cheek, tracing up to his nose, following the flow of blood. A solid frown of the brows, her lashes fluttered when she evaluated the damage.

“No,” his voice was only a ghost of it. Her fingers on his skin. She smelled... fresh. A small tilt of his head, and he would have the tips on his lips. He didn’t move.

“And the arm?” her eyes swam down onto the cut Vane had left.

“It doesn’t,” it wasn’t a lie: he didn’t really feel anything. Other than... “It will,” he added, pursing his lips.

“How...?”

“They never hurt until you notice,” he smiled it off.

“That’s right,” the line of the wound was straight, but it curved over the muscle. The blood was a dry crust and a recollection suddenly flashed past her eyes: she’d grabbed him, he tensed and...

“And you don’t have... blood on your face,” he distracted her from whatever concern he saw blossoming.  

“I took my time washing it away,” Gal drew  a heavy sigh.

It was no lie, there was no blood on her face, but Billy’s hand reflexively drifted to her cheek.

He’d resuscitate the bastard. Grind him into the ground and enforce the law: he’d kill him again, and he’d exploit every single item in his repertoire, unleash the wrath, and maybe, just maybe, the savagery of his abuse would approximate that of the slap.

 

“Are you mad at me?” she wheezed out.

Billy blinked the foggy bitterness back.

“Do I look mad?” he probed himself.

“Yes,” she said bluntly, shifting her eyes across his face.

 “I’m…” there it was, unnoticed, the rigidness of his muscle. He unbraced his brows, and his whole skull relaxed. “… not.”

Billy took his hand away from her face, “Sorry, it’s…”

But he only shook his head.

Galloway nodded, closing her eyes in complete misery.

No running amok or wrecking vengeance will ever satisfy the thirst for retribution.

He didn’t know what possessed him – he didn’t really ask questions alike anymore – Bones lowered his hand to hers. To impart the warmth.

Her nails were purple, again, but this time the inner sides of her palms were wreathed in tiny scratches, pink and thin, and bigger abrasions. He had never noticed earlier, and now had to school another wave of high dudgeon.

He would have the twat’s ancestors screech in pain.

 

Life was getting crazier and crazier every second, and then, through maddening pain, she felt his fingers fondly fiddling her thumb.

It felt delightful.

“Everything hurts,” she confessed in a small voice.

“I know,” his fingers stopped for a spell, and Galloway looked him in the eyes.

“I would love to exaggerate, but I’m not,”  the girl didn’t remember if she’d whined too much, but now he could name any part of her body – even the ones she wasn’t aware existed – and she’d say _yes_.

“I know you’re not,” he took a deep breath. Revealing any kind of pain was a something she indulged in rarely if even, thus exaggeration wasn’t anticipated. “I’m sorry.”  
“That’s not your fault,” she offered light heartedly. Her pale lips moved wearily – not in grease and smile, but he kept staring.

“It is.”

“No, it is not,” she threw her head back a little _– how come you can be annoyed when I say it, and I cannot when you shovel yourself down_ – and her lids glued over her eyes.

Galloway had battled through a lot, and was quite a connoisseur of self-castigation to be able to spot even the slightest hint of it at a hundred miles, even in a language she didn’t understand. And the girl believed that if she was insolent enough to resist the pangs of conscience for robbing a man of his life, then Billy could as easily let go of his remorse for whatever was bothering him. Especially if he repented of not saving her life when he had no means for it...

Her tortured countenance dissuaded him from further argument, and Bones bit his lip. He’d apologise again later, and afford her the parage to argue.

 

Billy felt her body shiver in his arms. Her breathing was growing steady, the eyebrows twitched.

It would be unusual not to speak to her. But there was no distraction from hurt, and when she faded down, pursing her lips, Billy shifted his gaze onto her hands.

They used to speak for hours and even when they didn’t feel like it, there was a strong feeling of receptive attention. But even despite the mutual limb enclosure, at times now he felt he was losing her – a sobering sensation and, with the jitters almost over, he still checked the solidity of his support at every odd stir of her body.

 

“You’re almost bald,” Galloway whispered searchingly.

Billy’s eyes flung open as he leaned closer, hoping he’d just misheard the phrase that fished him out of his thoughts.

“You look... almost like... Muldoon,” she squinted at the close-cut hair on his head. _Is she going mad?_

“Do I?” his eyebrows rose, and he was hovering between laughter and tears.

“I might be getting hard of seeing...”

“Galloway?” he hailed her, the moment of indecision was dislodged by complete absence of merriment.

“But it’s easy to tell... that that’s you.”  
_Either she’s going insane or being...soft._ The hardest thing was – with Galloway it was very hard to tell which it was.

“Is it?”

 “It is,” she replied simply. “There’s no person on the ship who’s too big for the bloody Man o’ war but still hasn’t grown into his ears.”

The line of thought fell.

 “What?” he narrowed his eyes, gravely concerned, any piece of even vague comprehension he hoped to have had escaped him.

“What?” she mimicked, a faux lazy expression, as if she’d not heard him.

_Oh, she’s just being Galloway._

His mind caught up with his body seconds later. First, her nose went out of focus. Then, the chipping flesh of her lips, dry and soft, under his. Sea and rum. Her body rippled in a wave rising from her feet, tensing up for a moment, and then she fell limp again. They’d been breathing it for too long. It felt like breaking moorings. The creak, the hiss of ropes against the wood, the splash.

His hand cupped her face, and he pressed his lips even harder, only to feel her reciprocate the pressure – ever so slight and weak, –  and her neck craned, the chin tilting towards him.

And Billy Bones was lost.

One of her hands escaped his hold and rose, her fingers curled round the rim of the shirt on his chest, icy against his heat.

So heady, yet so unhurried; his lips parted on their own accord, and hers followed – and they froze. Launched into the tenderness neither of them was used to, for once in their lives kissing someone because they wanted to. Not because someone thought it their right to kiss her. Not because he felt like the circumstances required him to. Deafening silence and soft beat of blood. 

Frown wouldn’t leave his face, and he was pleasantly allayed to find she wasn’t wearing one when he pulled back a little. Their lips were still grazing– a wispy touch – and he could count her lashes. Her nose pressed into his cheek, her scarce breathing, her scent, her taste and _Oh, God_ it spiralled up again.

His palm travelled up her cheek in a cosying desperation, and he let his face sink into hers.

Galloway only hoped her heart wouldn’t give out.  

His ardent near-kisses were flooding her cheek and chin, and the girl was scorching from within. He caressed her nose with his dry lips, not even pursed. So fiery against her cooled face. Soft and bristly, magnetizing.

Her body forgot to shiver. 

Oh, why there was no manual so that she would know the options, and how, and why and that it could be, and maybe she wouldn’t be so stupidly overwhelmed and would move... but the weight of her feeling lay fully and solely on the fast hold she had on his shirt.

Billy stilled, pressing a real-kiss to her forehead.

Galloway thawed. Little did she know what it took Bones to control himself and not crush her, hugging her to jelly, when she was so mellow and giddy in his arms. 

The girl kept losing her grip on the crazy reality, resigning herself to the rule of the warmth spilling inside. His skin was hot and rough, the callousness of his thumb was sliding up and down her jaw as his palm rested on her neck.  

It’d been years since he was that close to crying. Bones contorted his face, pressing his cheek to the crown of her hair – wet and cold – as he cradled her head.

It’d been years since she felt so relieved. Not a muscle tense, Galloway was malleable, and she abandoned herself to him. Just closed her eyes in pain and surrendered to his firm embrace. Letting the inordinate in her heard blur with that worldly calm.

 

Billy felt her wavy breath on his neck as her mouth fell open, and something inside crashed in a wave. Flutter spilled through his body and he suddenly felt every inch of his skin tingling.

Galloway didn’t know when it happened, but she was in tears again. And that time her lips curved and trembled as she wept, shutting her eyes. His hand was holding her cheek and he turned her face to his, and any other day, any other circumstances, she would loathe him to see it, but the exhausting and long suffering blocked the diffidence. The girl offered no resistance when he pulled her up and pressed tighter to his chest. She cushioned her cheek against his shoulder, staring into his eyes, chest heaving hectically, and made no sound.

Billy’s thumb slowly lifted to her eyebrows and he gently stroke the deep wrinkle, and she obeyed, closing her eyes.

 

 

The blueness behind the window never changed, and he slipped into it, missing the moment when the town must’ve been reduced to powder. The canons died down and Bones grew aware of that only when he felt the ship give a lurch. They were leaving it all behind.

She’d quietened, burrowing her face in his chest. Her breath was halting, yet the hand pressed to his chest wasn’t cold anymore.

The fingers of her other hand were laced in his, and his thumb was rubbing circles on the silk of her skin.

Galloway had warmed, and it was emanating more and more hope, immersing him into ecstatic comfort, but there was a pinch of restlessness, an irk that burned him like salt burns a fresh wound. The colour of the sky was acid. It was getting hard to breathe.

 

 “Galloway,” he whispered, lowering his head to find her face. Bones still didn’t know what exactly he wanted, but he could always come back and revisit the subject of his ears...

She didn’t react.

“Galloway?” he stirred, sitting straight, and her head fell back loosely. “Hey, hey...”

She was oblivious to his touch. The assault of panic gathered momentum when his eyes fell on the smears of blood soaking through her shirt.

“No, no, no,” Billy shot up to his feet. Her hand slipped off her stomach and hang lifelessly.

_Good job, mate, she barely made it out with her life intact, and you’ve arrived to be the first in the queue to become her undoing._

But Bones didn’t have the time to get too roily.

For that day would come down in history as the day of great timing.

Howell kicked the door open, wiping his hands on a towel, and came to a halt.

 

He didn’t utter a word, and the men gravitated towards each other.

The surgeon just put his hand on her cheek, frowning, “A touch too warm for my liking. Come.”

 

Time went slow.

Bones stepped out onto the deck, following the doctor. With the girl in his arms.

He felt their eyes. From the ropes in the rigging, from the deck around him, from the guns below. Tousled, wet hair. Clean skin. A vivid spot of blood on the fair shirt. Her beautiful neck. And parted lips. And eyes closed. And no line between the eyebrows.

And his every step resonated through him.

* * *

 

  
Sooner or later Silver had to come out to the deck, and taking into consideration he had been named the quartermaster, his desire to do so rose with every minute of his coming round. So he opted for sooner.

The deck cheered upon seeing his lame self, the crew ayed and hollowed, clapping him on the back, almost sending him down. He smiled wide. But the person who had claimed to never be even remotely happy with the idea of him being the quartermaster wasn’t there _. Billy._

Silver swallowed hard. She wasn’t there either – the recollection struck him as stray rock and he frowned, letting his jaw hang loose.

The deck below was like a magnet with the same pole. But he had to go down. He opted for sooner. John eyed the men once again before limping down the companionway.

 

The lower deck was dark, stuffy with sweaty and stale air and laughter.   _Way too alive._

Silver spotted Bones’ tall frame in the corner. Frowning, he was exchanging words with someone. Then he nodded, turning his head. And he smiled, seeing John. It was a faint smile, a smile of politeness, Silver believed. As he couldn’t picture Bones shooting him a grin, not after seeing him rather… devastated by the girl’s death. The frustration and dismay had been clear. No shirtlessness-combined-with-the-war-paint-on-his-face daunting ensemble would beat the rampage that had got the upper hand over his inflamed sense. It couldn’t have been the same face that was now looking at him, so serene. For a moment Silver feared Billy had lost his wits and was to supersede Randall.

John rushed – well, attempted to cripple faster, if we are not exaggeratin _g_ – to Billy. The person standing by his side turned out to be Howell, and he was now bowing down to someone lying in a hammock.

A curve of a hip, white gauze against the olive skin. He halted. Her forehead  was covered in beads of sweat, and her parted lips were trembling a little.

It was hard to draw his eyes away from her. For a reason.

“God strike me blind,” John breathed out.

Howell turned to him. Silver just stood there with his mouth open. He knew that Billy, damned bastard, smiled next to him, shifting from foot to foot. The one-legged man grasped his arm for support as he bent his knee to sit down, facing the girl. Gal was frowning, and stared straight at him with her red eyes.

“She’s been delirious for a few days,” said the doctor, wiping the wound. “Not the strongest constitution, but…”

“She doesn’t recognise me?”

“She does,” Galloway licked her lips.  

Bones gave a tug on his arm up as John chuckled.

Silver leaned on his crutch, skimming the cuddle of the girl with his eyes, and Galloway examined him back.

Her gaze lingered on the vacant space under his knee and she sealed her lips to swallow.

“Don’t you dare... look at me like this,” he whispered grievously, but a suave smile cracked his face. “You, deathless fawn.”

The girl nodded, shutting her sore eyes.


	18. Interlude p.1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the chapter begins before Silver awakes, just fyi :)

_“I really shouldn’t be lingering here… on my own. I should seem unbecoming.” Elizabeth smiles politely, removing her hand from the table as his fingers cover hers. “Father must be…”_

_“There’s nothing improper, miss Faulkner,” he talks over her, his cunning smile is touched by a quirk of warmth. He leans back in his chair, and the casualness of it is a bit ghoulish.  “And I believe your father’s judgment will not allow his concern. Why do you find yourself succumbed to any?”_

_Right. What an adverse fortune to find yourself enmeshed into a conversation with a person who only views women in context of mere extensions to men._

_“And why exactly my father’s judgment must affect mine?” her eyes on his, direct and probing._

_“I beg forgiveness, completely forgot. Surely, you’ve been granted plentiful liberty by your father – then most – in every, ahem, aspect,” a sly smile. “Thus I believe he wouldn’t mind...”_

_She wasn’t irritated a moment ago, but there’s only so much asininity she can take._

_What a dumb luck it was to have stepped over the threshold of the house whose master, coincidently the father of the intact bull, is unduly preoccupied with her marital status. 'Isn’t she too old not to be wed?’ he would ask with a gleam of deviltry she gradually grew to recognize._

_A woman daring to live her life – let it sink – the way she wanted it. It’s not that marriage is out of question, it’s that she will marry when she desires. Whom he desires. If she desires. And again, Mr Faulkner is the devil, a completely ignorant one, for enabling her to exist like that. Who ever heard of such a thing?_

_Hence, the Faulkners, essentially being just different sized versions of one and the same person, never really answered that, but their faces slowly changed into a thespian expression as if they were watching a fly caught between two panes of a window, beating itself against the glasses._

_One time, for all that, when the question, phrased the same was as always, was voiced again, for all twenty people at the table to hear, overflying all the thirty perfectly cooked dishes and founding ringing silence, Mr Faulkner, unperturbed, dipped his spoon in his soup and lifted it to his lips before raising his eyes at the man and answered, as loud as he was questioned, but beautifully nonchalantly, and in a manner that suggested he was genuinely waiting for a reply (as if), ‘How do you find it your concern?’_

_They never heard the question again._

_“I really should be going now. It’s getting dark.”_

_“Isn’t it a great shame, Lizzie… Perhaps I can arrange for you to stay…”_

_What a blunder it is to find yourself alone in a room with the person whose gaze keeps dipping into her décolletage.  “I am afraid it wouldn’t be convenient,” she tries to conceal her astonishment at the familiarity of the offer that overshadowed the familiarity of her first name. “Thank you for all your trouble on my behalf…” she rises to her feet, forcing a smile. But his hand grasps her wrist, as he stands up as well._

_She looks down, bewildered._

_Her insides cover in frost, and she flings her look up at him._

_“You cannot tell anyone, but... Esther walked on Anne Bonny, in Charlotte’s room, and...”_

_“I don’t think that is...” she puts her hand against his chest, flinching away from his face targeting her neck._

_The demands for him to desist whatever he is trying to achieve are doomed. His grip on her wrist turns into a white-knuckled one._

_“Please, stop” she insists. “This is obscene.”_

_She should’ve known better._

_“Oh, stop it, will you? It’s alright,” he breathes into her ear. “Don’t,” he says as she tries to remove his hands from her waist. “I’m not going to hurt you,” she feels his slippery lips on her cheek. The kiss is wet and hideous._

_“Is something wrong?” she asked, but her hand snaked back to curl round the hilt of the dagger. She’d just turned round, hearing the leaves whisper, to see Vincent._

_“Stop it!” she freaks out . His hand makes it under her skirts._ _His purpose of inflicting cruelty is marked clearer than that of a bloody mammoth hunter, a man in a waistcloth, with a javelin ... “Are you out of your mind?” the realisations the situation is hostage has come almost in time, but presented no alternation._

_He is. Out of his mind. He also just knows she doesn’t understand it. She’s never tried it, how does she know she wants it not? Let alone, is she in a position to..._

_He’ll give her a second chance._

_“Shh…” he reaches for her upper thigh, hoicking up the dress._

_“Get away from me!” she raises her voice, shoving him in the chest._

_But she’s measly against him._

_“Man overboard,” shouted the pirate next to her, and then someone else._

_“It’s Billy.”_

_The wall her spine is pressed to is cold and hard._

_She’s seated upon a narrow desk. The candlesticks clinker. His hand in-between her legs._

_He is. The movements are raspy. She doesn’t breathe._

_The pain is cutting. Vehement. Not fading._

_The smell of his sweat and toilet water._

_His soft fingers. Never touched anything heavier than a spoon._

_His hair in her face._

_The pain. The pain. The pain._

_The confrontation did not last long._

_The man of merit pulled a persuasive gambit of supreme power, the one where she felt a tip of a paring knife under her chin. He likes his strawberries sliced._

_It is not going to last long._

_It seems like he only exhales._

_It’s not real._

_Vane’s blade slid out of Joshua’s body, and the pirate faltered. Something held him up on his knees for a mere breath,  and then he angled slowly. Dark blood on the dark skin only barely visible._

_She keeps her eyes shut. She knows he’s done. Her nails dig too hard into her palms and she feels blood and cold sweat mix. The sound of his breathing mingles with the crinkle of her petticoat as he lets her skirts fall down._

_Lizzie breathes in, a laborious task, her lip trembles and the eyes drift open. And she sobs._

_“No need to act that way, Miss Faulkner,” he pants, burying his head in the base of her neck.“We both know we share a mutual attraction.”_

_Her throat fills with sick._

_Curving her lip, she shoves him again. She never knew she could muster such rage. She knows the next second she will gauge his eyes out. Even though she doesn’t really know how it’s performed._

_But he grabs her forearm and she shrieks._

_He’s not let go of the knife._

_“They’re dead, Galloway. Both, she slid his throat and Charlotte, she...”_

_This is where to cowardice comes. He says he didn’t mean it. The cut._

_The sight of blood makes him light-headed._

_And he lets go of her._

_“It’s Gates,” Dufresne’s voice was a bullet in the haze, and she turned her head to him. It took her a second to grasp what he was saying._

_“I never really understood these games, but since you insisted on playing...” he does the last button on his trousers and turns to her. Red in the face. Shoulders back, chest out, chin lifted.”I know you favour me. You are to be given…”_

_“Says who?”_

_She’s on the floor, in the sea of her skirt. A dark glare in her flat eyes. Provoking nothing but an arrogant smile._

_And he gives a half-shrug._

_“I just wanted... to talk,” he said wistfully when she stepped down from the brothel’s threshold._

_“Of course,” her brows stirred and Galloway gave a nod._

_“I thought we could ... go to the beach. He liked it there,” the last words were mumbled, as if Gates was ashamed. To grieve. And she took him by the arm._

_A step towards her. The girl scrambles up to her feet. And she bolts out. In terror._

_Laughter in her wake._

_There’s no one. There’s absolutely no one and the hallways are desolate, maids and servants aren’t patrolling the doors, as usual. The dull sound of her heels echoes against the walls. Only muted titter intimates the house is not abandoned._

_The flatness of her step changes into clicking when she pushes the door open, cool wind and a chorus of noises blows into her face and she staggers for a second. But only for one, odium rams into the back and pushes her out of the house._

_A turn, a street, another turn and she can’t keep it in any longer._

_She breaks her nails, clutching at the edge of a building, when her body snaps in half and she’s bending over. She hasn’t puked since she was ten. She’s always dreaded it._

_The bitter taste sears and rends her throat. The vicious, perverted sweetness of the éclair she’s eaten. And she her stomach heaves again.  
Still bent forward, Lizzie doesn’t open her eyes. _

_The air is cold and bleak. Snappy._

_She holds her palm under her breast. A drop of saliva hanging from her lower lip, but the pain is rushing through her and she feels it in her eyes – if she opens them, she will not see._

_A minute later – a violent minute of swirling – she looks up. To see people staring.  
And she straightens up and takes a step back. To retreat._

 

_She knew she looked ugly. Her head was shaking and she gritted her teeth in rage, and the dagger hit his finger bone. And he shrieked._

_She’s called every name in the book, offered money and sex, as if they know it. Is it written on her forehead? Do they all know now? How? The hem of her skirts is mudded, the front dirtied by the debris of the dinner, the shoes are ruined. It didn’t last long. Less than 5 minutes that ruined her life. How simple it was._

_Her hair is matted. The back of her head hurts._

_Haggard._

_Is this how they know?_  
_Do they smell it?_  
 _Do they see it?_

_Do they feel it?  
Do they know it? _

_But Lizzie is running, how do they see it?_

_Can they see it from afar?_

_The sweat is sticky and cold and she only hopes she won’t fall._

_Why is it me to be demeaned?_

 

_“Good luck,” mouthed the girl._

_“Thank you, it might be an asset,” Mrs Barlow pulled on a strained smile, but her face relaxed after a moment._

_They clasped their hands in a goodbye._

_She’s never done that. Ignored Louise. But she runs past the maid without a word._

_The door to her room slams closed._

_Soiled. Dirty._

_Off. Off. Off._

_She rips the dress off. Cuts it with scissors. Tears it. To get it off._

_The corset is ditched away._

_The window is open and so genuinely loved hiss of leaves outside seems deriding._

_“Lizzie?” Louise leans her cheek against the cold door form the other side._

_Lizzie is in her undergarments._

_In the middle of her room, she stands like a ghost and her hands are shaking._

_She takes the hem of her underskirt._

_And feels her inner thigh._

_A line of wet. Blood._

Of course there is.

_This is what it is supposed to be like…_

_She loses her breath yet again._

_“My name is Galloway Faulkner, and my father is dead,” she said, a horrific combination that swirled in her mind but never found voice, cool and even. And she peered into his eyes. It would tell her everything. It would be it. It decided it all._

_His countenance is unflurried. But she saw something snap behind the green._

_The door downstairs opens and bangs closed._

_“She’s upstairs, but she won’t open up,” Louise’s voice quivers._

_“Elizabeth!” he shouts and the girl trembles._

_Vigorous steps on the stairs. Lizzie fists her hands._

_“Elizabeth, open the door!” her father’s voice is reeking with disturbance. And he bangs on the door. He’s never been so upset with her._

_“Elizabeth, where have you been?” she’s too old for such childish escapes.“Open the door, or I will! Elizabeth?!”_

_But she won’t move._

_“Is she all right?” he lowers his voice, guarded._

_“I wouldn’t say there was anything out of the... but, I don’t think...”_

_“Answer me! Lizzie...”_

_He pleads._

_She doesn’t know what part of his body he used to break the door open._

_“Elizabeth, what is going on…” his voice is still big, but the irritation is entombed._

_He halts._

_She’s squeezed herself into the corner, shrivelling there in her shift, feet tucked under her bottom. Wrinkling the underskirts in her hands, painting the white fabric with smears of crimson._

_Her fingers covered in blood. She doesn’t even know how to hide it._

_She stares at him with incomprehension and disbelief, and the her lips are red, her nose is red and her eyes are red, and she keeps crumpling the fabric._

_“Lizzie...” his voiceless utterance trembles as he steps towards her._

_The maid covers her mouth._

_Her chin flickers._

_Edward falls to his knees in front of her, taking her wrist in his hand. The fingers of his other hand, horrifically shaky, hover above the cut, but he doesn’t touch it. And he reaches for her face._

_Lizzie depresses her eyes._

_He gathers her up to himself and her body crumbles as she slums against his chest. And she gives herself over to tears again. And her throat croaks._

_And Lizzie lets out a cry. Long and loud, it drowns in his chest._

_And another one, after a short breath._

_And again._

_She will lose her voice._

_Louise’s hand is shaking, showered by tears._

_The cry bobs up and down when she inhales and skids into sobbing._

_He’s enraged. His hold of her tight, and she feels his quick and frequent, deep breaths._

_She does not embrace him, afraid to befoul his coat, and her nails dig into her palms again, tearing the old wounds.  
_

She dragged her eyes open.

Heavy lids screeched over her eyes, grazing every vessel of her eyeballs that all seemed to be popping.

Galloway breathed in, but the exterior air was as hot as insides, and she only exhaled another wave of suffocation. She wasn’t wearing much, but felt like a northern queen clad in every item of her wardrobe, all minks and furs included.

“You good?”

The girl rechanneled her gaze upwards, the pain in her eyes afire sprawled away to the deepest curves of her brain. She blinked, pausing halfway. 

Dooley bowed down a bit to scrutinize her features. He’d been passing her cot on his way to the galley and spotted her tossing and turning. The crew hadn’t heard a sound from her in the last couple of days, she just lay still and only awoke when Howell would come to check on her wounds.

Galloway swallowed, irritating her scratchy throat, and breathed heavily. The incineration only seemed to crank up.

“Right... Just a second, love,” Dooley bit his lower lip, frowning, and raised his pointer up before hopping off.

* * *

 

His fingers gently drummed his against the wood, blindly. His jaw flexed as he looked into the distance, the collar of his shirt fluttered in the wind.

The prow cut through the waves like knife through butter, white crests of foam rising in the protest. The moon hypnotic and yellow as poison. A day until they reached Tortuga.

_The bloody gold._

How could they all get sold on the cheap pontificating.

 

“ _We can’t thieve forever.”_

 

The bloody gold.  Provoking loss beyond recoverable. Offering nothing. Nothing of his interest. Not anymore.

But they’d done it themselves. Subscribed for the disservice of the century.

 

Billy did try to keep a straight face, but failed, and his features crunched in a pained grimace. He needed Gates, but levitating his gaze to the tiny pale dots of stars, letting all the air from the lungs in a loud puff, he had nothing to say to him. Only…

_What the fucking hell, Hal?_

 

His eyes grew bitterly heavy and he curled his fingers over the rim of the gunwale. Polished by so many hands.

Billy opened his mouth, squinting, but never let a word fall.

_What the hell, Gates?_

 

 

_Am I still captive?_

_Is it just a different captor?_

 

_No._

_“I know I’m here on my own free will, but ...”_

It had been the last night when he fetched her water. They sat on the companionway and Galloway, registering his suspicious interest in her hands, asked if everything was all right. His eyes rose to hers and he blinked, working his jaw. And then simply asked her how it went. His last days.

Her smile was emollient and fluid, Galloway pursed her lips, dimpling up, and nodded.

He was glad he asked.

For him, it didn’t yet come easy, but he would gradually excel at being as candid as she was.

 

The grimace morphed into a frown, a sharp grip of his eyes on the horizon. _Is it the cold or the wound causing the fever? What if the heat doesn’t pass when we reach New Providence?_

_Oh, I only hope it’ll pass._

 

_The bloody civilization. The louder they proclaim it, the less civilized it gets._

_“You know how much civilization is left there? It’s now only a hollow word hovering over the turmoil like a ghost, like a shield that is see-through. I’ve been to Charlestown on my was to the islands, I’ve seen it, and it is no different from the places I fled...”_

No chance to be convinced in the correctness of her testimony now, inasmuch the exhibit’s shortcoming…

 

“Billy!”

Bones steadily turned his head, but his eyes lingered on the water for a moment more.

“The girl’s come to...” Dooley, losing his wind, approached the brother and beckoned to the ladder. Billy swallowed, looking down at the man.

“Did you tell Howell?” inquired Jensen, sitting on a barrel next to Bones and wrestling with Betsy. He tried to relieve her of her bleeding claws for she kept trying to jump onto Gal’s hammock which only resulted in the fabric getting ruined and Galloway flinching.

“No…” Dooley shrunk his head into his shoulders. The question seemed out of place as though it was more than obvious that Billy was to be advised first…

“Did she ask for anything?” the rigger did hope she’d ask for the cat and he wouldn’t have to take pains with the furry devil.

“Nah, she doesn’t really speak. But she responds,” he ascertained.

Billy’s eyes darted between two unidentified points in the distance, and he moved.

It was less than a bell till his watch relief and he could afford it…

* * *

 

He hated the sight.

Her lying in the berth, pale as the moon, motionless, gleaming with sweat and breathing stentoriously. Yet again demonstrating the most soldierly endurance, among all those men, causing less trouble than some whining sloths with injuries far less critical.

Sometimes Galloway jerked in fever, but otherwise didn’t move, unless forced by Howell. And she hadn’t eaten in three days already, unless Howell and an assistant of his choice forced some water into her. But not once had they had to help her to privy, for any liquid seemed to evaporate just at sight of her. There was an absurd fear that one day they would come to check on her and find nothing but chars.

He hated the sight, but kept by her side almost all the time off-watch, relentless and unable to properly unlax. Warding off Betsy and Muldoon. Supervising Howell’s manipulations with the wound that was slowly encrusting.

His sleeping hours got minimized to barely four. His waking hours were full of constant disquiet.

 

Billy slowed down coming up to her cot so as not to rouse her by the clomp of his boots. The girl lay on her well side, pulling her legs up, and her breaths shuddered.

“Hey,” the words came out in a hoarse croak. He’d not spoken to anyone that evening.

Billy squatted down to her, locking his jaw. A teardrop stopped on the wing of her nose.

Galloway slowly tore her eyes open. The lids were heavy and Bones saw her struggle to focus on him. The girl frowned, studying his face.

“Billy?”  her voice so small and soft.

“Right,” he slowly reached out to wipe the tear and tenderly ran his knuckles across her white cheek. Her skin flamed. One day his teeth would break from all the clinching: her eyes fell closed and she heaved a sigh. “How are you feeling?”

“‘s fine,” Galloway got the whisper out with effort and moved her hand to touch Billy’s, but only winced a little. As it were his words that stirred the sore. She opened her eyes again, with difficulty, slowly, to see Bones gaze sadly at her body, “Is it ugly?”

Billy had seen thousands of wounds, scratches, sores, abrasions, everted stomachs, guts ripped open, minced skulls, gouged eyes, open fractures and bones sticking from where they weren’t supposed to – if any bone is ever supposed to be sticking out – he’d seen brains on timber and he had been dealing with blood for years, but no wound ever excited so much empathy as the scratched flesh on her arm and side. He almost felt the bullet scraping and burning his own skin, the most agonizing and vicarious sore. 

He knew it was clean and most definitely much better than it had been a couple of days before, but it was still a damage, a reminder of the mangling she had survived, a patch of skin that would persist on suffering, a scar.

Galloway blew a breath, reading Billy’s sorrowful expression, and just slammed her eyes shut.

“It’s not ugly, it’s just a wound,” a puisne pacification, yet he found himself desperate for tools to banish her misery. Her face screwed up. “Does it hurt? I’ll wake Howell,” he shot, but the girl made a mumbling sound.

“Don’t...”she licked her dry lips. Her forehead and collarbones were shining in the moonlight. “...wake him, ‘s fine.”

“Gal...”

“Aren’t you supposed to be on watch...” Galloway cocked her eyebrow, to the best of her ability.

“Um, yes...” Billy jerked his head in surprise. He didn’t know she’d managed to keep track of time amid her somnambular state.

“Slacking off?”

His lips sprawled in a smile, “I’ll be back when my watch is over, and I’ll bring him.”

“Right, but just… don’t wake him,” she said feebly, raising her red eyes at him and Billy nodded.

 

A quarter of an hour later she heard the bells and within a minute someone pulled a stool next to her head and lowered himself upon it.  She suspected he’d done that before, but could never be sure It was him. She was only aware about the watches because the bells were designed to be heard over anything and everything and raise the dead from the ground, and the shot from the hammocks. But steps were not, and she barely discerned people thereby.

Bones leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

 

“They say she’s awake,” whispered Muldoon, creeping from behind Bones’ back.

“Does she look awake to you?” even though he was pretty sure she was, Billy knew that the moment she’d foundered into the malady and couldn’t really mark the environmental entities as threat or non-threat, he assumed the charge fully.

“I brought Betsy…”

Bones glanced up at him and arched his eyebrows. Muldoon tarried in indecision.

“I’ve heard they can heal people… “

Billy sucked on his teeth and kept staring at his brother.

“Only Silver needs that cat now more than Galloway, but he’s in the captain’s quarters, and you know Flint won’t have a cat there, I won’t even dare venture...”

“Alright, give her to me,” Billy grounded arms and took the cat into his hands, shaking his head, “Heal people…” he chortled.

The girl heard the small taps of Muldoon walking away, dutifully trying not to make a sound, and then just listened to Billy grappling with Betsy, who, as always, risked his chest as a claw sharpener.

“Why Silver?”

He looked down on her troubled face, eyes still closed. Pressing the cat to his knee with his large palm, he breathed out.

“He lost his leg.”

“He what?” her stiff eyelids moved.

“He will be all right. Howell did his best.”

“But how did he...” she countermanded the soreness of her throat and the heaviness in the lungs that numbed every word she wheezed out. 

“A scuttled deal with Jenks...” Bones didn’t know whether that incident was a freak accident or something casual already.  
“Elaborate.”

“He crushed his leg when he refused to chose a brother over another, and Howell had to amputate it.”

“And Vane’s crew is still on the ship?”

“They are.”  
“I’ll ask ‘ _How’_ later, when I’m equipped to comprehend the answer...,” she lowered her angry brows. “And Decker?”  
“Oh, just like you, he’s _slacking off_ on the other side of the deck,” he beckoned into the darkness and the web of hammock strings.

“Is he all right?”  
The response came delayed, “Lost a lot of blood, but ... he’ll live.”

The girl fell silent. The convolution to convince her was that befitting a judge.

 “Do you want anything?” he slid off the topic softly.

The girl gathered her brows, and her eyes sought his.

“Could I have some water?” she croaked helplessly.

 

Galloway didn’t have to ask twice, for Billy left his seat the same second, not uttering a word.

But when he got back, the girl’s berth was empty. Almost – Betsy curled in a ball, revelling in the heat the Galloway left behind.

“The fuck?”

He looked around, scanning the ambience, but she was nowhere to be seen. Decisively, she was one of the few people on board who could make an escape and do it letter perfect, but then, given all the given, it was scarcely credible. _Has someone fucking stolen her? The actual fuck?_

In two lengthy strides he ran up the ladder and there, on the upper deck, they were. Dooley was carefully setting her down on her feet. Bare feet. On the hackly timber of the deck.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bones came up to the two, but only the pirate turned around. Galloway was already sinking down, her rubbery knees giving way. Dooley tried to catch her, grabbing her arm – _luckily_ , the wounded one - and a deep groan escaped her lips.

“You, bloody moron,” Billy scooped Galloway before she drooped down onto the wooden boards.

“She’s been stiflin’ again, I thought she could use some air…” Dooley did look guilty, for the record.

“Did she ask you to?” he almost roared the ship underwater.

“No, but I....” the pirate’s words faded away as Billy hurried to the ladder.

Bones knew Dooley meant well – the fragrances of the lower deck were defying any description: the heavy tangs of scores of male bodies, and _God send_ a dozen of those Apollos ever gave a bath thought; some hideous bastards farting violently in their sleep, not to forget half of the men inhibiting the Man o’ war must’ve been housing life in their dreadlocks, and the post-battle winds took long to wear off – some of the most prominent smells that ever offended nostril.

Dooley did mean well, but a good intention, Billy had learned, wasn’t always a clever one. And the girl was slumping into abyss, gripping the shirt on Billy’s back, while the fabric of her own was getting wet with fresh blood.

“Wake Howell,” he sizzled through his clenched teeth.

The wildfire of her body burned his arms through the damp fabric of her garment, and she expelled another grunt.

 

Bones put her down straight onto Betsy, who retreated swiftly, rather insulted.

“Shit,” he flared his nostrils when she shut her eyes tighter, twisting and hissing at the pain, “Galloway?”

“Hmm?” a button of the shirt popped open as she wriggled, her body snapping and throbbing, and Billy saw the sweat beading on her chest.

“You shouldn’t’ve touched ‘er,” Howell gloomily informed Dooley, who trailed behind the doctor. The surgeon rubbed his eyes and almost kicked Betsy out of irritation.

He’d told the idiots one too many times not to touch the poor girl unless necessary and only one person knew when was necessary, and it was Mr Howell himself. Was he fortunate enough as to have at least one moron who would listen and soak in the entirety of his litany – apparently not.

“You’ve trimmed it, ‘aven’t you?” he hissed at Dooley, bending down to Galloway. He put the back of his hand on her forehead, and, judging by his expression, Billy could tell he wasn’t delighted.

Howell had put a great deal of efforts into nursing her to health and he tended to her wound with monstrous delicacy wishing the scar to be as sheer as possible. And, heavens, was he gladdened to hear she’d come round, and, heavens, was he frustrated to hear Dooley carry on with the news…

“Let me see,” he carefully rolled her onto the side and went to unbutton her shirt. Dooley docilely raised his eyes onto the ceiling, but the doctor elbowed him and beckoned to his quarters.

The mule was visibly displeased with being undressed once again, but there wasn’t much she could do.

Bones just towered above the cot, arms and brows crossed, watching the doctor slip one sleeve off her arm.

Galloway lightly pressed her hand over her breast, but felt it that it wasn’t exposed. She let her fingers skim against the gauze – not too tight for her to notice its presence, but secure enough for the presence to serve. Her lip trembled and she let out a soundless moan when Howell unglued the thin layer of bondage.

He cursed seeing his worse fears pan out – the wound that had been healing so nicely reopened.

Dooley got back with clean gauze and cloths, and Howell dutifully rebandaged the unfortunate limb, while his eyes kept skipping to Galloway’s face.

She lay still, the focus of her eyes drifted as she tried not to give the pain any headship. Her breath uneven, the nails dug into her palm.

 

“Ain’t you a dimwit,” concluded Howell, shaking his head and putting her sleeve back on.

“He didn’t mean it,” her voice was barely audible.

Howell and Bones cast timed, grumpy, but kind glances at her and exchanged looks.

“No rash decisions, thenceforth, Mr Dooley, please,” sung Howell on his way to his quarters, with a palpable air of causticity.  

 

Billy sank down onto his stool, rubbing the base of his nose..

“Do you still want to drink?” he asked after a while, not taking his eyes off her face, splotchy from the crying she hadn’t managed to curb.

“No,” short and sombre.

“I’ll help you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Indeed...”

The girl slowly moved her head to lift her eyes on him. Bloodshot, teary.

All he wanted now was to have all her pain to himself.

Or whatever, if it would palliate it, he was in.

 

She’d passed the peak of fragility.

Soon, they would enjoy the occasional ripe swear words rolling over her tongue, prim snipping, put downs so neat, that even a ‘go fuck yourself’ would only inspire eagerness for the trip...

Soon she’d laugh again.

 

“Oh, no,” whispered Galloway, but didn’t move. The cat slid under her arm and pressed herself against her chest. “Billy…”

“I’m not dealing with her,” he chuckled, but Galloway peered at him.

“Take her away, please,” she drew her brows down. Muldoon’s sporadic attempts to help were appreciated, but another source of heat was not, not in that feverish hell.

“Muldoon says cats can heal people,” he kept smiling and the girl knew she was losing.

 “He also believes a mermaid soup will make his hair grow back. That’s why he’s pirating.”

“He does,” Billy’s brows rose in agreement.

“Please...”

“I’m not here to protect you from cats, Galloway,” he gave her a slow smile.

“Then what?” she snuffled.

“To make sure no magpie make off with you again.”

“Billy, please...”

“You know... she’s just upset. She misses him.”

“But I can’t even stroke her. Howell will tie me down if I move, you heard him.”

“She seems content, without the stroking bit,” he leaned in to get a closer look at the beast’s placid face.

Betsy curled into a ball, with her head under Galloway’s chin, and the girl gave up, hiding her face as she buried her nose in the fur.

* * *

 

They weren’t moving. The anchor bogged down in the sand feet below them. The moonlight, spilling through the hatch, kept hitching as the men on the upper deck were going around in circles, getting ready the launches and getting ready to ease what was already hard. Just a whiff of thought about the fiery beauty that awaited them ashore, and there was truly no difference between the men in the face of running agog. Tortuga.

Billy left. Saying he would return with the fist launch coming back. An hour, at longest, he said.

_Right._

_He won’t have to queue…_

_Shut up._

 

The deck was oddly quiet and uncrowded, and her mind went noisy and cramped.

She pushed her head deeper into her pillow. _Shut up._

Only way out of that torture was sleeping it off, but of late, the drowsiness merely refused to evolve into slumber. _Should’ve asked for rum._

That night she got sad. Not the kind of torment that she was pushed in by her state of health or the anguish she embraced having learned how many brothers who lost their lives in the line of duty the crew had to pay homage to. Just properly sad. She knew sooner or later her company would abandon her – Billy wasn’t tied to her berth by any statutory or moral obligation.

And thinking did prove to be a reckless pursuit.

 

 

The girl knew she wasn’t completely alone on the ship: the watch were on the main deck and someone was fussing in the galley. And someone was slowly walking to her berth – she knew exactly who – and as much as she longed for it, she never knew what to expect if the conversation was introduced. They’d told her he’d been asking after her when she got laid low with the heat, and they’d told her those inquiries made up for the biggest part of the uttered those days.

He never sought the limelight – it always found him itself, but then he made sure his wanting and needing the solitude was salient. It wasn’t hard to understand.

He was the black mood that nothing was to dispel, abasing any energy (and basically forcing everyone to flee into the hands of zest given half a chance). His appearance, not yet as unkempt as hers, was devoid of hope. But it was him who had rescued the hope. Galloway incarnated the vehement denial of all the evil, and as she lay lifelessly in her cot, they all read the line of her forehead as a sigh of unbroken dedication.

 

The man that sat on Billy’s stool was not the captain of the ship, the most feared pirate of the New World, the cold-blooded murderer and most adroit sailor. It was a man who looked worn, and at least fifteen years older than he really was. His green eyes went bleak, and the deep furrows on his forehead and around his lips cut even deeper. There was no dropping of the pretence, there hadn’t been any. Just the self-inflicted boundaries: only a few emotions permitted to express for him, being the Captain.

Not remote, not distant, not inapproachable anymore. The maudlin was finally bared, for her.

Hesitant, he brought his hand to the brim of her hammock.  The air curled up in her throat and Galloway moved to hook her fingers on his.

 _Him_ she hadn’t seen in years. Kin and familiar, missed.

 “Thank you,” she said, gulping down.

He shook his head once, closing his eyes.

 

 

“I never said that I am sorry,” whispered James after a few long minutes, and something so fragile leaked out of his tone that she blinked back the tears.

“You never sent me away… I guess it counts?” the girl’s lips softened, but her gaze continued glazed.

“I’m sorry about what happened to you, Galloway,” it felt deranged to think about it, but saying it to her, the girl he had last seen a child and so enthusiastically merry, despite everything, was like slowly pulling an arrow out of the stomach. “And I’m sorry about … your father,” his throat, coated, sent his voice into rustle.  

When Elizabeth had been a child, she never tantrum-cried. She only crumpled herself into a chair, or anything what was provided, and sat quietly, with her lower lip trembling and tears patiently running from her glassy eyes.

She hadn’t changed much: the tears flooded her eyes and she trust her chin up, pursing her lips. And her chest quaked with every new spate of agony.

“It’s so strange to call you that… Galloway,” he smiled through the tears welling in his eyes.

“It’s so severely embarrassing not to have recognized you…” she hiccupped, coercing the crying, and her lips, quivering, broke into a grin for a moment. “I can see him rolling his eyes at me from whatever heaven he resides in…”

The corner of his lips quirked, but the smile got blown out of his face, like a candle in rude wind, “I knew it were you, from the second I saw you but… I was so scared to believe it. I feared it were you…” and an ebb of coherence caught him. Edward’s sequel. A memory, a reminder. But Galloway was not her father and James came to hating himself for disregarding her person in such a vile manner. Out of fear, out of indecision, out of pain.

Yet now it was her he sought counsel with.

“Right,” she inhaled, unable to shift her eyes from his. Why had they had to go through the worse of it to attain it, and reach each other? She burst out even before she uttered it, “I’m so sorry too.”

Her father used to say that Mr Hamilton’s death was the rock that crushed Lt McGraw. And then the ten years of perennial war and rage lacerated his face into wrinkles. And now, there was barely any life behind his eyes. Her demise was another rock, and it ground him into dust.

“About … “ she halted for a second, unsure what appellation was fitting.

“Miranda,” the girl heard it in his voice – the knife slicing his heart. No one really dared to say anything of the kind to him. Yet. Afraid, and sure he would not respond, let alone welcome, any attempt. His chest got weightless. “It was Billy who told you, wasn’t it?”

“No, it was Captain Vane,” she continued when his brow etched. “He came to me. I don’t remember when…to enquire about  my health. And he told me… what he saw there, in the square.”

“He came to you?” his head wavered.  
“Yes,” she swallowed. “We’re friends.”

A chuckle and his eyes filled with tears again. _I see you, Edward._

“But he didn’t say anything about Miss Ashe.”

“Miss Ashe was sent out of the town the morning before trial. I believe she is safe,” he assured the girl, nodding.

“That’s good,” she licked her lips.

 

“Galloway,” said James after a while – a while they spent looking at their encased hands, “I reckon there’s something you must know,” the girl drew her brows together. “About Peter Ashe…”

* * *

 

Billy returned with the first launch, and the same launch brought Flint onto the Spanish Island.

They met on the lower deck – a brief encounter of only one nod – when the captain rose from Billy’s stool, acknowledging his presence, courtesy of Galloway’s eyes registering him in the distance. James left without a word, but Bones saw them break the hold of their hands, and he knew it was no apparition.

Her face was ruddy from crying, eyes and lips puffy and the snub of her nose the colour of semi-ripe cherry. But she shut her eyes, shaking her head, when he came up to her with his lips parted.

He obliged, and stifled the worry, “Fancy some fresh air?”

“Hmm?”  
“Look what I found,” he moved the stool closer to the foot of her hammock and sat down, holding up a pair of low laced shoes.

“Where?”

“Just… round here,” he furtively beckoned to his left.

“Look barely worn,” she said languidly.

“Yeah, have been taken good care of,” he avoided her eyes, looking down as he loosened the laces.

“Um-hmm,” surprisingly, no further investigation.

“Tell me if they’re too tight,” he flicked his brows up, looking at her, and Galloway didn’t even have a chance to protest -  being a rogue version of Cinderella would still be a tad embarrassing, even after everything else she’d already came through – and when he held her by the ankle, she merely nodded.

“They’re so soft,” hummed the girl.

 _Soft_. Billy sucked his cheeks in. Um-hum, the explanation of the blistering madness of her toes and heels.  
“Come on, not for long,” he stood up and put his hand under her waist so she would bend her back a little and let his arm slip round her torso. “Before the whole lot of them is back,” he chuckled and lifted her up.

 

Nothing too creative, he set her down on the steps of the companionway leading to the aft deck.

The girl leaned on the railing post, immobilized. The limbs still felt heavy, the eyes ached and the smart in the bones didn’t evaporate either.

“Thank you,” she strained her voice to sound clearer.

“Feeling better?” he lowered himself next to her, unable to allow for any space between them – she was on the lowest step.

Galloway slowly opened her eyes, slanting at him, but mostly out of exhaustion rather than fret, “You’ve asked me that today, already.”

“Yeah, I have,” he agreed, dropping his gaze onto his gaiters.

“It’s the same,” she let out slowly, acknowledging once again the jumpy headache that felt like her brain was a clavichord and someone was enthusiastically banging on different keys. Her skin was wickedly hot, but the worst thing was the copious perspiration. She’d never been so sweaty in her whole life, and that, plus the nest of unwashed hair and general look of scruffy, beaten pigeon, was exactly the reason why she would rather Billy hadn’t been sitting so close. “But it’s breezier here.”

“It is.”

The sun soaked up all the warmth it had lent, leaving the air breathable and fluid.

Tortuga soaked up all the noise. It was just a chunky line of yellow, flickering lights – the sole source of warm colour in the dark blue of the night. And there, on the ship, only the sound of sails and rigging touched the ear. And the water, licking the hull. And low chuckle of the watch.

The calm was inexorable. Just as longed-for as the fresh air.

Galloway slowly moved her neck until her head fell back, exposing her throat and chest to the wind, “Oh, Jesus.”

Billy followed her stare and let out a chuckle, “Don’t worry, I told him to shout _Stand from under_ next time he drops something.”

“Um-hum,” her throat moved, “Not that I’ll be able to retreat anyway.”

“Let me reassure you, he’s grown very careful over the days.”

“Billy, you did assure me the rat was dead.”

“Oh, come on,” his shoulders trembled with the laughter coming from deep inside.

“I knew you couldn’t judge from her colour alone,” she puffed.

“Her?”  
“Betsy didn’t eat her. I reckon they are friends…”  
“Fair,” he closed one eye, deliberating.

 “You know…It seems getting back from here will be hard,” she frowned, realizing she had no muscle strength in her neck whatsoever.

“Have you thought of the story you’re going to tell everyone?”  
“A story?”

“Of how you survived.”

“Is there a story?” she looked at him, slanting her eyes.

“All right, let me do this,” he reached out for her and carefully helped her straighten her neck. “They’ll want to hear one.”  
Galloway pressed her temple to the post, “Just because   they cared about your story doesn’t mean they care about how I’m still alive… which is a mystery to me, if I’m honest. I don’t remember much.”

“You don’t?”

“Not really, you see, the attention must’ve been elsewhere. Didn’t really think I would find myself surrounded by interest if I survived… The water was cold, but then it went warm. I remember screams, and now I would say it was Silver… And I remember Jensen. And Flint, and then I’m here…”

_… here and …. what?_

But she said nothing.

The blow was bolt-from-the-blue. His ribs tightened around his lungs and the heart sunk down, suppressed.

He tried to name the feeling – a way to escape it  - and decided it was sorrow. As far as he remembered, it encompassed both sadness and regret. He didn’t regret it per se, he regretted his audacity and …

That lasting mental constipation didn’t go unnoticed, and Galloway stirred, gazing into his dulling eyes. Her lids trembled.

Billy’s lips moved, and her chest was in the wings to undulate in the most honey-like of excitements, but the words that rang shoved it down her throat,  “You can say you wrestled with sharks...”  
“There were no sharks,” the response was well-timed and not slugged, but it took half her energy to mask the fluster. It died fast.

“But no one knows that,” he smiled mischievously, and her quick sorrow was pervaded.

“Right, please do write your ideas down, I’ll chose the ripest and go with it. Not big of a storyteller myself,” she smiled back.

 

 

“What if there were sharks?”

“Then you’d only have to count the minutes.”                                  

“And wouldn’t have to decide...”  
“Decide?”  
“You either try or you don’t,” she elucidated.

“And you … were deciding?” Billy shook his head, squinting.

“Oh, I’ll level with you - the time it took me to choose between life and death was embarrassingly long. Impaired judgment, could be… But it’s hard. To just let it all go.”  
“Right,” he said absently. Gimlet-eyed, he stared at the board, turning his face away from her.

And he closed his eyes, silently breathing out.  
“It was … scary,” Galloway swallowed uncomfortably and Bones looked at her. “Not to sound vain, but I thought I’d run out of capacity for being afraid…”

“There’s no such a thing,” his lips pursed, sympathetically.

“Well, yes, but I’ve heard it somewhere that once you experience something so insanely scary that you receive a life review, there’s nothing that holds the power to scare you anymore.”  
“It’s very naïve to assume that life cant top shite up.”

“But what if you come so close to death one day… is there anything worse?”  
“Losing.”

Their eyes locked, and the soft gaze communicated the pain that no voice could give sound to. Galloway’s chin jerked, and she shook her head,  “I thought so too. But I’ve lost … him. And I still am afraid.”

Billy’s lips pressed tight, and he hung his head loosely, eyes focusing inward.

“Are you ever afraid?”

He smiled at first: funny it was, but Gal didn’t mean to gall. Her voice was even.  
“Of course,” he let out, trying on the critical forthrightness, something he would allow only Gates to see. “Yes.”

Galloway nodded and then swallowed, “Are you losing count … of people you’ve lost and people who’ve left, too? Because I am.”

“I am.”

“How do you even… All this blood, fight, death, murder and rage… how do you stay… you?”

A hard line formed between his brows and he opened his mouth, yet trying to form a word. What kind of answer did she want to hear? Was there an answer?

But Galloway facilitated it, indicating the direction, “Just tell me that … sometimes all you wanna do is just eat your weight of bread and sleep for a decade or two?”

“I do,” he let out the next second.

“Good… Good to know I’m not insane.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure, Galloway,” he chuckled. “I’m an absolutely bad moral compass to rely on in terms of such estimate.”

“Ah,” she waved her hand at him, closing her eyes.

 

 

“Do you think there’re sharks where we are now?”  
“Here? I would say no, but you never know. But you almost can never tell if the waters are good,” he craned his neck to look at the horizon, “They come close to the shore sometimes. Why?”

“I’d not mind being pelted in the water now. This makes me miss the chilliness of it.”

“Want to go down?”  
“No, it’s a bit of _diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit,_ you know,” she looked at him with only one eye open.

“No…”

“Whining,” she pursed her lips and her cheeks dimpled.

“You can allow yourself some,” Billy shrugged, leaning back.

“Never a good idea.”

“Why so?”  
“I don’t know. If you let yourself whine, then you _let_ yourself do it. Which means, you think you deserve it. Why do you deserve it? Have you done something heroic?” she went on slowly and wearily, following on the bumpy road of contemplation, “I never do anything heroic, not on purpose, because father always said that no one really would appreciate my heroism if I ever exhibited it, so ...”

“Gates would disagree.”  
“I think what he meant was... that you shouldn’t do things solely hoping to get appreciated for it. And even if you do something heroic, you’d better not be expecting praise. And, you can’t disagree, that everything you do from self respect is a bit perverted... What was the question again?”

Billy chuckled, “I think we should get back,” every time she opened her mouth to start saying something, his mind would go wandering where it would end up. But there, it must’ve been a different sort of rede, “Let’s go down.”

“Um-hmm.”

Bones stood up, taking her by the middle, but she stretched her feeble arm and clawed into his shoulder. He froze for a second, but then followed with her notion.

Through joint efforts they managed to get her up on her feet, and her arm curled round his torso, holding onto his shirt on his side. She leaned on him more than walked, adhering to him like white on rice as he tugged her next to him. It would’ve been much easier if he simply carried her, but easy wasn’t always useful.

The companionway was particularly difficult, and there he feared she would rip his shirt, and his own hold on her got too tight that the shape of her ribs under his fingers got too sharp.

“Would’ve been a shame if I didn’t test them out,” she whispered when he helped her to sit into the hammock, and stared down on her feet.  Billy smiled.

 

The exertion was finally something enough for her to slumber into another two days of sleep.

* * *

 

“We are almost home,” Bones ducked down, holding onto the wooden frame of the door above him. The galley was empty, save for Galloway and Silver – the maim gang – eating.

The girl sat on the floor washing the fish down with water, holding the cup with the heels of her palms.

 

It had been hunger that wrenched her out of death claws, and it, having been depressed for so long, was back the second her body gained its standard temperature. As soon as she stopped brewing, her stomach adopted the empty and floaty feeling and even a though of food, let alone a stray sight or scent of it, and her mouth was full of saliva. And when her over-sensitive senses alarmed her to a crew walking ten feet away, with a bowl of some nondescript brew, she panicked.

“Oi,” the pirate stopped in his tracks, seeing her openly devour him with her eyes. He looked at her, but as he spoke, in a loud and so Glaswegianly cheerful  voice, his head moved an inch toward the galley behind him, “Galloway’s alive. Have we got any chicken left?”

She hadn’t stopped eating since.

 

“You both… good?” Bones nodded, looking around the chamber.

“Good?” Silver squinted from pain as he was trying to stand up. “If in your philosophy  of life her pigging out is regarded as good, then yes.”

“It is,” dropped Billy, jerking his brows, “Going up?”

“Has to be done.“

Bones took the man by the arm and helped him out, slowly, waiting for the girl to rinse her hands.

 

He knew she followed them onto the upper deck, much more stable on her two feet. Not in fever, not pale, not choking.  

She followed them to the deck, but would she follow them further?

As if there was where to follow.

The Man o’ war was the rightful property of Vane’s crew as soon as the last Flint’s man touched the sand of Nassau.

Flint, nonetheless, never set his foot out of his, _yet_ his, cabin until sundown, and when he did, showed very slowed response, if any, to stimuli. But no one would have the juice to say his leadership days were behind him. He had been a leader even in the scarce moments when he didn’t know where to go. In those moments, sheer mentality played tricks on the crew who followed him. Every step seems right when you don’t know where to go. And since the truth is in the lips of the speaking, as long as you believe something to be true, is there anyone to accuse you of lying? The big question was, where there moments when he could tell a truth and a lie apart? And if, what did he choose to utter?

 

Now, however, there was violent determination in his cold eyes and lips yet sealed. 

Billy didn’t want her to be there for it.

There was no Mrs Barlow anymore. Nowhere to retreat to.

They undoubtedly would let her stay in the brothel, but he didn’t want it either, not for her.

Galloway carefully propped her elbows on the gunwale, moving her arm cautiously, and looked up at him, squinting her eye at the sun. Her nose wrinkled. The upper lip etched.

What Bones dreaded the most was parting. He didn’t want to.

Joji’d helped her to braid her hair. The wounded limb was hard to lift yet.

It wasn’t that he had something in mind: a certain opinion to invite, a certain topic to touch upon, a certain question to ask, but he was willing to speak to her. Now, that day, the next day and well into the next decade, century, millennium. But especially now, when it was the verge, the fin, and every breath seemed more to have more meaning and value than any conceivable thing.

It was a penance, a bloody penance, that he even came to taste that.

Oh, was he cramped. All Bones had left was counting minutes. Of calm. Because once they were on that beach, they would talk. And hell would they argue. And hell would it hurt, but he would see to it that she made it to the furthest colony there was to the Empire, and settle, and be safe.

He didn’t have much to do anyway.  
Billy breathed out, smiling back at her.

_Lord and savoir, give me the strength to warsle with this black mop of temper._

He mentally loosened his stiff neck, preparing to, symbolically, pack her into a cannon aiming at ‘Safety’. When (and only) she agrees.

 

Bones was counting minutes. Of Galloway.

He didn’t want to part with her, desperately. But Billy Bones was a man. Maybe he could get what he wanted. But should he?

Billy knew the right call. And he was man enough to go with it.

 

Galloway quit staring at him, and her sun-annoyed eyes moved onto the water. And there, in that plaintive (exclusively for Bones) moment, she frowned and said in an amused voice, “Is it the Walrus?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, my dudes  
> the story reached 1000 hits (which may not seem cool in the grand scheme of things, yet :) ) and I'm also super grateful for the kudos and the comments! it all makes me very ✿♥‿♥✿  
> kudo the whole (almost) hundred of you back <3


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